No One But You
by LadyOfThieves
Summary: FINALLY COMPLETE! Did you ever wonder what happened to Briseis after her return to Troy?
1. And So It Is

**I got bored with writing King Arthur fanfics, so I've just switched back to Troy for a bit of fun. I have no idea if this is any good – I'm currently experiencing a bout of writer's block, so it might be complete for all I know. Anyway, please review – if you guys like it, I'll think about continuing it. Be warned however – if I do, it's likely to be nowhere near accurate to either the Iliad or to the film.**

**Oh yeah, and I own nothing etc etc.

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**Chapter One: And So It Is**

'_And so it is  
Just like you said it would be  
Life goes easy on me  
Most of the time  
And so it is  
The shorter story  
No love, no glory  
No hero in her sky'_

_Damien Rice, 'The Blower's Daughter'

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Briseis found herself trembling as she stood on the chariot that bore her away from her lover. She kept her eyes fixed on the place that he had stood, long after he had been swallowed up by the darkness, and in her heart, she would keep watching him forever.

She felt the chariot slowing, and pulled herself out of her reverie. Surely the distance between the Achaean beaches and the Trojan walls could not have been covered so quickly? But when she looked around her they were still in the middle of the empty space where neither the fires from the Greeks, nor the lamps on the Trojan walls were visible.

Priam pulled the horses to a halt, and turned to face his niece, who stood beside him. She was still looking backwards, towards the place where she had been a slave, as if transfixed. Slowly she turned her face towards him, but, as their eyes met, Priam realised that the girl he had known was long gone. In her place was a sad, quiet woman, one who knew pain, and would always carry the scars inflicted on her in the past few days.

"Briseis," Priam said, trying to pull the girl away from the black thoughts, and remind her that she was safe. "Briseis?"

Briseis blinked slowly, and suddenly saw her uncle in front of her; instead of the gaping blackness that had occupied her sight from the moment that she had lost sight of Achilles.

"Briseis, whatever happened to you, it wasn't your fault. You are still a priestess and my beloved niece," Priam told her, but instead of comfort, which he had been trying to offer her, it seemed to bring her more pain, for she flinched at his words, and turned her face away from him.

"I cannot be a priestess any more," she said, but her voice sounded harsh, and hollow.

"Briseis, do not blame yourself for what happened to you," Priam said, struggling to ease the pain that she was in. "Sometimes…sometimes the Gods send these things to test us…to make us stronger to serve them better."

Even in her angst-stricken state, Briseis could not fail to see the irony in the old King's words. Yes, the Gods had sent her to the Greeks' camp to test her, and she had failed their test bitterly.

But she could not say any of this to her uncle. How would he understand the fear, and misery that she had felt in Achilles' tent? How could he understand what it was to give into temptation, and to lie awake for hours afterwards, wracked with guilt, and trying to reason that it was better to go to him willingly, than risk rape at the hands of the soldiers? How could he understand what it was to wonder whether, perhaps, she had been more than just another whore to him? She could not make him comprehend any of this, and so she would not try.

"I cannot return to the temple," she repeated softly.

Priam sighed. Did the girl not see that she was only making things harder for herself? But she had suffered. There was no doubt of that. Perhaps she would return to the temple when she was ready. He would not push her. "As you wish," he told her, his voice gentle, and yet it only made Briseis flinch more. She could not deal with affection or kindness of any sort now. Not yet.

Priam gathered the reins up, and clicked with his tongue as the horses moved off again. Briseis, he noted, had gone back into her silent trance, but this time she was not staring off into the darkness. She was staring into her hands. Her hands, which clasped something so tightly that her knuckles had turned white.

Priam remembered Achilles putting something in his niece's hands as they parted, and wondered what it was. As he thought about their parting, it seemed stranger and stranger to him. Achilles had not treated her as a whore, nor she him as a master. Instead, they had been almost reluctant to leave each other. A doubt began to grow in Priam's mind, and though he tried to push it away, the look that he had seen in Briseis' eyes returned to him.

The old king pulled the horses to a stop sharply this time, starting Briseis from her stupor, and when he spoke, his voice was, though not unkind, far less gentle.

"What is Achilles to you?" he demanded of her.

Briseis raised her hazel brown orbs to meet his penetrating gaze, no longer caring what he saw in her face. "A captor," she said bitterly.

Priam said nothing, but kept his eyes locked on hers. "Briseis," he said eventually, his voice full of regret. "I know it made it easier for you to believe he cared for you. I understand that. But remember, now you are free of him, he killed Hector. He is the greatest threat to Troy that exists on this earth. Do not speak of him, or if you must, remember everything he took from you." His words were deliberately harsh, but Briseis did not shy away from them as she had when he had tried to console her. She met his unspoken challenge head-on.

Briseis had changed much in the few short days that she had been a prisoner. When she had been a priestess, she would never have contemplated defying an order from her uncle, unspoken or not, but she found herself wanting to tell him that he was wrong: that Achilles had been kind to her, that she loved him, that not even Hector's memory could change that. But before she spoke, something Priam had said flashed through her mind: '_I know it made it easier to believe he cared for you_', and she found herself thinking that maybe, just maybe, the old man was right. Perhaps she _had_ just imagined any affection. Perhaps she _had_ been nothing but a whore. It was a small doubt, but it was a doubt nonetheless, and it was enough to stay Briseis' fierce words, and make her bow her head.

Satisfied that she would do as he asked, Priam flicked the reins again and the horses moved off into a trot. Though his own mind moved on from what he had said, the words burned like a brand inside Briseis' mind, until she no longer knew truth from lie.

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**Should I continue? I've got a couple of ideas for this, but I'm not too sure, so any comments, good or bad, would be greatly appreciated. Oh, and the title of the story comes from Queen's song – 'No One But You' which is both an incredibly good and incredibly sad song. Anyway, please, please review – I'll send virtual chocolate to the first reviewer! Promise :D**


	2. Hopelessly Devoted

**Wow – thanks for the response guys! I think I've replied to the rest of you, but thank you Tiffany () as I couldn't reply to you, I'll do it now: I hope this chapter meets expectations, and please press that little 'go' button at the end, to make me very happy :D actually that goes to everyone reading this – please, please review!

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**Chapter Two: Hopelessly Devoted**

_My head is saying, 'fool forget him', my heart is saying, 'Don't let go'._

_Hopelessly Devoted to You – Olivia Newton-John_

Briseis suddenly became aware of light and noise around her. She looked up to see the walls of Troy ahead, the great gates slowly opening to admit them. Torches lit the city as they entered, and Briseis suddenly felt a desperate wish to return to the darkness outside the city walls, for she felt exposed and unsafe in the bright light. She bowed her head as Priam drove the chariot into the city, letting her hair fall down like a curtain, shielding her face, but she could not be insensible to the stares of those around her.

There was Paris, she could see him from the corner of her eye, and beside him stood Hecuba, the King's wife. Suddenly she caught sight of the grieving Andromache, rushing forwards to her husband's body. Seeing the tall slender woman, who had been such a good friend, sent fresh stabs of guilt to Briseis' heart. It was her fault that Andomache was grieving: she could have saved Hector's life, but instead she had discarded any thought for her virtue, and gone to the bed of a killer.

"Briseis?" she heard Paris' shocked voice, and raised her weary head to look at him. His face split into a grin. "Briseis! It is you!" he said, his voice full of relief and joy.

But Briseis turned away from him, dismounting from the chariot. Paris moved towards her opening his arms to embrace her and welcome her home, and Briseis shied away from him.

"Don't touch me!" she snapped at him, stumbling backwards.

Paris' face initially betrayed hurt, but this emotion quickly dissolved into something far worse: a fierce hatred burned in his eyes, scaring Briseis, until she realised it was not directed at her. She had never before seen such a raw and powerful emotion on the gentle Paris' face, and it scared her, knowing that this was for her.

Paris, who had, at first, felt nothing but joy that his cousin had been returned, found this feeling quickly slipping away as she shrunk back from his touch. Looking at her now, Paris felt a hatred towards the Greeks that was greater than anything he had ever felt before. That they could do this to the sweet, gentle priestess that he had known was too much for him to bear. He could see cuts on her face, and bruises on her wrists, but far worse than any physical pain, he saw the pain and grief haunting her eyes.

"Paris!" Priam called him. "Help me with your brother's body."

Paris immediately turned away from Briseis to go and carry the body of brave Hector to the rooms where it would be prepared for the pyre. Briseis was, momentarily, left alone, and she welcomed the solitude, shrinking away from the lights and into the shadows, where she could hide from the inquisitive glances of her family.

"Briseis," a soft voice came from behind her, making her start. She spun around to see Hecuba standing there, making no move to touch her, for which Briseis was grateful, but simply being a reassuring presence. "Come to your rooms. The men will deal with Hector," Hecuba told her.

In that moment, Briseis loved Hecuba more than she thought humanely possible. The old woman understood enough to know that all Briseis wanted now was peace and privacy. Briseis nodded, and followed the Queen through the torch-lit streets and into the palace. Hecuba did not try to question Briseis, or even to talk to her, and Briseis was thankful for this, for she was not sure if she could manage to phrase words coherently.

Hecuba opened the door to Briseis' rooms, and the trembling girl passed inside. "Do you want some hot water to wash?" Hecuba asked, and Briseis nodded and she sunk down onto her old bed.

She sat, perfectly still, gazing around the room that she had inhabited what seemed like a lifetime ago. Everything was as how she had left it the morning that she had gone to the temple. It was like returning to another world, to another life. Briseis shivered involuntarily as Hecuba organised buckets of steaming water to be carried into the room, and poured into the bath.

"Do you want help washing?" Hecuba asked Briseis when the bath was finally ready.

Briseis shook her head quickly, and Hecuba nodded, retiring to the passage and closing the doors behind her. Once alone and safe in her room she made no move, but to turn to gaze numbly at the bath. It seemed like an age since she had been clean. Since Achilles had laid his hands on her.

Briseis suddenly realised that she was still clutching the necklace of seashells that Achilles had given her. Slowly, she uncurled her hands to reveal fresh blood from where the shells had cut into her hands because she had been holding them so tightly. She gazed dully at them, but suddenly she stood, raising her head, her eyes burning, and flung the necklace across the room with all her strength, as if trying to rid herself of the memory of Achilles along with the necklace.

A shiver raced down her spine, and, stung into action, she ripped her torn and dirtied dress off and moved quickly into the water, scarcely noticing as it scalded her, so desperate was she to remove any traces of Achilles from her skin. She sat in the bath until long after the water had cooled, scrubbing furiously at her skin until it was raw and red. And still she felt his hands on her.

Briseis suddenly realised that it was almost dawn. The night had passed while she had scoured away the traces of her life in Achilles' tent, and now a new day was dawning: a day when she was free. And yet…and yet she was still shackled by the memory of a lover who had once said he would leave the war and take her back to his home.

Briseis rose from the bath and wrapped herself in a soft blanket. In the long hours when the bitter darkness of the night had almost taken hold of her, she had realised something. She realised that Priam was wrong: Achilles may have never loved her, she may only have been a war prize to him, but he had been kind to her, and for that, if nothing else, Briseis could not hate him.

Suddenly everything made far more sense to Briseis than it had in a long time. She knew why it was that she could not hate her cousin's murderer: it was because he had shown her kindness, when all she expected was cruelty. She felt relief wash through her weary body: she had been so scared that she loved him, and now she knew she didn't. Gratitude…yes, it was gratitude and not love that she felt for him. And so Briseis fell asleep, oblivious as to how much she was deluding herself, for her feelings for the golden-haired killer went far deeper than she dared to admit.


	3. The Pain I Feel Inside

**Hey there guys! I'm so impressed with myself that I actually managed to get this chapter up when I said I would! Admittedly I should be spending this time doing my Spanish homework, but I'm not going to get reviews for that, lol.**

**Thank you to Tiffany, Amanda-Kay and Gaby for your reviews – I think I replied to everyone else, but if I didn't I'm sorry that I left you out! You are so much appreciated :D**

**Ok, about this chapter – Briseis doesn't feature in this one, because I wanted to get some other perspectives in, but do not fear! She will return with a vengeance in chapter four. I wasn't too sure about the end bit – I didn't know if I should have put in anything about Achilles' feelings, but then again I think that it will be important for you guys to see how he's feeling to understand something later. Anyway, tell me what you think about it all please!

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**Chapter Three: The Pain I Feel Inside**

'_I try not to think about that pain I feel inside,_

_Did you know you used to be my hero?'_

_Simple Plan, 'Perfect'_

Paris stood over his brother's body, now cleaned and princely once more. And yet it was not grief he felt for Hector, instead, rage coursed through his veins. Rage for Hector's killer, but also rage for the whole of Greece. Greece had taken his brother from him, had made his cousin a broken woman, had killed so many of his kinsmen. And, Paris swore, by the Gods he would make Greece pay, if it cost him everything he held dear.

He heard a soft step behind him, but did not move, and moments later two slender while arms snaked around his waist, and a golden head rested on his shoulder.

"He knew the risks he was taking," Helen said softly to her lover, her voice full of pain for Paris' grief.

Paris said nothing, but his hands moved up to cover hers, and she knew her pathetic attempt at comfort had been appreciated. They stood there, silent and unmoving, for some time, both with their own thoughts, and yet seeking reassurance in the warmth of the other's body. Finally, Helen spoke once more. "King Priam wishes to see you," she told him.

Paris showed no signs of having heard for a minute, but then Helen felt, rather than heard, him sigh, and his shoulders straightened as he turned to face her. He kissed her briefly on the forehead, and closed his eyes. It was moments like these, he thought, that he knew no matter how the war went, he would do it all a thousand times over for her.

"I'll see you back in my chambers," he told her, pulling away.

Helen nodded, her eyes, full of concern, searching his face for some clue as to what was going through his mind. But Paris, usually so extravagant in his emotions, had learnt to hide them in the last few days. He was Troy's Prince now, and it would not do for the Trojans to see weakness in the eyes of their Prince.

"You called for me father?" Paris asked, standing in the doorway to the great hall. Priam was in front of the huge statue of the God, but he was not praying, instead, he was just looking at it, a sad expression on his face.

"Yes," he answered when he heard Paris' voice, turning around. "I wanted to talk to you about Briseis."

Paris blinked, slightly surprised. He had not expected his uncle to ask him for counsel in such matters, but, then again, he had taken Hector's place, and he knew that the old King relied on Hector heavily for any advice.

"What about her?" he asked, moving further into the room.

"She refuses to return to the temple," Priam told his son.

"You would allow her to?" Paris asked, shocked that his father would bend the rules, and let a woman no longer a virgin serve as a priestess.

"She…she has suffered greatly. I thought it would make it easier for her to go back to serving the Gods, that they could give her the comfort that I fear I cannot."

"You cannot make her," Paris reasoned.

"I know," Priam said, and in that moment he looked very old. "I do not know what she was forced to endure in the Greek camp, but…Paris I must tell you, I found her in Achilles' tent."

Paris' reaction was immediate. A hissed curse escaped his lips, and his hands clenched so tightly by his sides that his knuckles went white.

"I wanted to make sure that you make him pay for what he has done, both for Hector's sake and Briseis'. I am an old man, or else I would challenge him myself. Avenge the death of Hector and the rape of Briseis, my son."

"I will make him curse the day he came to Troy," Paris swore

Priam nodded slowly. He had no wish to send his son to his death, but he knew that rage was a very powerful ally.

"Thank you," he said to his son.

Paris raised his eyes to meet his fathers, and saw there, for the first time, real pride. Paris suddenly realised that, in all the years that he had been Hector's little brother, his father had never been so proud of him as he was now. He had always been second best: he couldn't run as fast as Hector, fight as well, offer such good advice, but now, now Hector was not there for him to be compared with, and Paris finally had a chance to prove himself: to prove to the world that he was a true Prince of Troy.

"I won't fail you Father," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

Priam nodded again. "Make Troy proud."

Paris held the old king's penetrating gaze for a moment, before turning and leaving the great hall. He walked down the corridors as the sun was rising: the light illuminating the darkness and casting a golden glow onto the walls. Light, and hope, were returning to Troy.

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In the Greek camps, however, darkness reigned. Agamemnon and Achilles were once more at war, and the camp trembled when the two met. Odysseus walked slowly along the beach towards Achilles tent. The brief twelve-day break was much welcomed by the soldiers who sat about on the sand, sharpening swords and cleaning armour, but mostly talking, laughing and trying to pretend that they wouldn't return to the thin line between life and death in a few short days. A few of them nodded to, or hailed the King as he passed, but most ignored him, lost in their own worlds.

As Odysseus approached Achilles' tent as dawn streaked the skyline, he saw the warlord sitting on the sand outside his tent, sharpening his sword with slow, firm strokes. Achilles had not slept since Priam had taken his niece away, and in the depths of his heart he did not know how he would ever sleep again without the soft body of Briseis in his arms.

To an outsider there looked to be nothing wrong with the sight of Achilles in front of his tent, however Odysseus had knows Achilles for years, and he knew, from the whiteness of Achilles' knuckles as he grasped the sword, and the vein throbbing in his forehead, that Achilles was in far from a placid frame of mind.

Alerted by the sound of footsteps, Achilles looked up as Odysseus approached, and met the older man's eyes for a moment before looking back down at the weapon on his lap, and continuing his work.

Odysseus sighed inwardly, he hated trying to talk to Achilles in a bad mood. He sat himself down on the sand a couple of feet away from the brooding warlord, and just watched him for a moment. Long ago, had worked out that the best way of dealing with Achilles when he was like this was to just wait for him to speak. Achilles did not fail him, and after a moment, he put down the sword and turned to the King.

"Do you come from Agamemnon?" he asked in a flat voice.

Odysseus shook his head. "No. Not everything I do is at Agamemnon's request."

Achilles nodded and looked away, out across the calm sea. "I hear you have had an idea for getting into Troy."

"Yes," Odysseus said in a wary voice, unsure of Achilles' sentiments when it came to attacking Troy. He had, after all, been willing to abandon the war for a woman that was now inside the city. "I am going to Troy tomorrow to discuss the terms of the truce," he told Achilles.

The reaction was immediate. Achilles snapped his head up, his eyes, which had been so flat and dead before, suddenly blazing with a thousand emotions. These, however, flickered and died in the short time that he was looking at Odysseus, and when he did eventually speak, all he said was, "Oh."

He wanted to ask Odysseus to take a message to her, to see if she was alright, to find out whether she looked happy now she was back in her home with her family, but he was not a man who could admit emotion for others easily, and so he did not speak.

Odysseus was not called the wisest man in Greece for nothing, however, and he read all of his friend's doubts and fears in his eyes. He knew, perhaps, more than Achilles had even admitted to himself, and, to be honest, he feared the outcome of Achilles' feelings for the priestess. But Achilles was his friend, after all, and he would do all he could to ease the mind of the warlord.

Odysseus stood and paused, searching for the right words. He gave up, however, and simply gripped Achilles' shoulder before heading off back down the beach. Achilles looked up and watched the King leaving, jealousy that he would the next day be in the same city as the priestess, burning in his heart.


	4. Learning to Breathe

**As always, thank you to everyone who's reviewed, and here's a lovely long chapter for you, because I was feeling very kind (and in a ramblish sort of mood. Don't you just love that word – ramblish?)**

**Some point about this chapter: firstly, in the film I absolutely hate both Paris and Helen and thought that they were stuck-up, selfish little (&#/s BUT I wanted to try and write them to be nice, because it's only fair, really isn't it? I don't know them, and therefore what right have I to judge? Anyway, enough of this deep moral stuff – onto point two! The second thing is that I know that Hector's body was all beaten up when they gave it to Priam in the film, but I'm going by the Iliad version that said the Gods had protected it. thinking about that, I came up with the solution presented before you today (you have to pronounce the last five words in a lawyer-type voice, lol). ANYWAY! I'm rambling now, a horrible disease that I am prone to I'm afraid, sorry about that :D **

**Ok, guys, another thing – I need some help as to the end of this story. Fear not (he said for mighty dread had seized their troubled mind…) I'm along way from the end, but I really need to start planning now, so here are the options: A - Briseis and Achilles return to Phthia (Achilles' home), B – Both of them die (very tragic I know, but at least then they'll be together in Elysium), or C – it ends the same as the film. It's your choice. Oh, and if you have any ideas of your own I'd love to hear them. The thing is, you see, I have 2 or 3 very lovely melodramatic endings to this which I could use, but I don't know which one would be best, so I'm leaving it up to you. Anywho, enjoy:

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**Chapter Four: Learning to Breathe**

'_Hello, good morning, how you been?  
Yesterday left my head kicked in  
I never, never thought that  
I would fall like that  
Never knew that I could hurt this bad'_

_Switchfoot, 'Learning to Breathe'  
_

Paris stopped outside Briseis door the next afternoon, listening for a sound inside. He had left Briseis, guessing that she needed to sleep, but he heard nothing from within her room now, and so he put one hand out, and gently moved the door open. Inside, Briseis was sleeping in the centre of the large bed, curled up with a blanket wrapped around her, her tousled hair fanned out across the silk sheets.

Paris' heart went out to the girl as she lay there: she looked so young and innocent. Her face, illuminated by the golden glow of the rising sun, was placid and showing none of the pain of the night before. Paris hoped that she had found peace in sleep, for she seemed to have none in waking.

He moved into the room, closing the door behind him. The sound of it woke Briseis, who stirred, blinking sleepily and sitting up when she saw Paris was there.

"Sleep well?" Paris asked as he sat down on a chair beside the bed, knowing full well how feeble his words were.

Briseis shrugged. "Alright," she said, her voice small.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Paris offered, already knowing the answer he would receive, but needing to ask the question nonetheless.

Briseis shook her head. "No," she answered, but there was gratitude in her voice, and Paris knew that his rather pathetic efforts had been appreciated.

"Will you come to eat with the family?" Paris asked.

Uncertainty suddenly came onto the former priestesses face. "Will they have me?" she asked after a moment.

Paris understood her worry. By now Priam's large family would know that their cousin had been recovered, and would probably know too that she had come from the tent of the man who had killed their brother.

"You cannot be held to blame for anything that happened on the beaches," Paris told her earnestly. "They will rejoice that you have been brought back to them."

Briseis held Paris' gaze for a moment, before dropping her eyes. "I…I would rather be alone for a bit," she said softly.

"Briseis, they are glad that you have returned, no matter what has happened to you," Paris told her. His voice was gentle, but inside he was getting increasingly impatient with her. They had always been so close, and now, when she needed his love and support the most, she was blocking him out.

"I just want to be alone," Briseis repeated.

Paris sighed. "Alright," he said eventually. "Do you want me to send your maids?"

"No," Briseis said, her voice scarcely above a whisper. "I will dress myself."

Paris nodded, remembering how she had shied away from his touch the night before. "I will come back later and see how you are," he told her.

Briseis showed no signs of having heard him, and so Paris rose and made his way to the door. In the doorway he paused, glancing back at the girl who sat, huddled on the bed, the blankets pulled tightly around her. He sighed again, and then left, closing the door gently behind him.

Briseis made no move to get up after he had vacated her room. She sat in the middle of the large bed, her knees bent, and her arms hugging her legs tightly. She felt so out of place amid all the luxury and prosperity of Troy. It was as if she belonged in the rough comfort of Achilles' tent.

No! She thought sharply. She belonged here! She had been saved from the Greeks, and returned to her home. She had been nothing but a prize to Achilles, one that he would already have forgotten.

And with such thoughts in her mind, she rose, still clutching the blanket around her naked body, and made her way to choose a dress. But as she stood in front of the rack of clothes, her indecision returned. She could not bear to wear white again. She could hardly bear to look at it, knowing everything it symbolised: everything she no longer was. But appearing in a different colour would cause people to talk, and the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to herself.

Finally her gaze fell on a black robe, and for one long moment she remembered her lover in a black mantle, his golden hair tumbling down onto his shoulders. Briseis hesitated for a moment, and then took the robe down and, letting the blanket fall to the floor, slipped it over her body.

It was perfect: it hid the bruises and cuts on her skin, and, if questioned, she could say she was wearing black in Hector's memory. Though in truth, she did not know why she was wearing black: perhaps it was to symbolise her fall from the purity that white portrayed, perhaps it _was_ because she was in grieving, though not only for Hector, or perhaps it was because Achilles had worn black, and Briseis was subconsciously trying to hang on to anything that reminded her of him. But whatever it was, Briseis felt safe in black: anonymous, and it suited her fine.

Briseis went out onto her balcony, and stood, looking out across Troy. The view that she had loved so much before seemed unimportant now. Everything seemed unimportant now. She hardly knew why she had bothered getting up, for what was she living for anymore? A failed priestess had no place in Troy.

She stumbled backwards slowly, as the realisation of her predicament hit her. She was in a city that hated the man who had taken her virginity from her. She could not return to the temple, she knew that, and no man in Troy would want her now. She had no future. Indeed, she was surprised that Priam had even brought her back to the city. She hit the wall behind her, and slid slowly down it, until she sat, crumpled at the bottom, her head in her hands.

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She did not know how long she sat there, drowning in despair, but the sun was low in the sky by the time that she was startled from her reverie by a soft tap at the door. Helen entered after a moment, closing the door behind her, and she moved out onto the balcony as Briseis raised her ravaged face to behold a golden one. Helen, keeping her distance from the grieving girl, sat on the floor of the balcony facing Briseis, her back to Troy.

"Did Paris send you?" Briseis asked, her voice unduly bitter.

"He is worried about you," Helen explained, no reproach for the sharp welcome in her melodious voice.

Briseis turned her face away, angry about being disturbed.

"Briseis," Helen began. "Don't punish yourself for what happened there. It was not your fault," she repeated the words that Briseis had already heard so many times.

"Do not tell me it was not my fault!" Briseis snapped, raising her head angrily.

Helen looked down at her folded hands resting on her lap. "Briseis…I know what you are going through. Paris…he means well, but he does not know what it feels like."

Briseis' eyes softened at Helen's words. She had forgotten that the beautiful Queen had been raped when she was scarcely more than a child. And though Briseis did not speak, Helen saw the apology in her eyes.

"You have your whole life ahead of you," she continued. "Grieve for a while, but then put away your pain, and move on. It is the only way." Her eyes met Briseis', and for a moment they stayed that way: immobile, before Helen spoke again. "If you ever need to talk," she told Briseis. "Don't forget that I will listen."

Briseis said nothing, but then, slowly and uncertainly, she nodded her head. She had been scared of Helen when Paris had brought her to Troy, resentful even that the golden-haired woman had taken her cousin from her, but now, now she was grateful. She guessed, correctly, that Helen had not had to deal with grieving people before, and she knew how hard it was for Helen to offer to talk about what had happened, when she probably didn't want her own memories raked up.

"Well," Helen said, her voice practical. "Will you come to Hector's funeral?"

Briseis looked up sharply. To be honest, she had forgotten all about Hector in her own pain. Fear rippled through her body at the thought of having to appear in front of so many people, in front of Andromache, but she knew equally that she had to be there. She nodded her assent, not trusting her voice, and Helen rose from the floor with the inborn grace that she was blessed with, and held out a hand to help Briseis up.

Briseis looked at the hand, unwilling to offend Helen by rejecting it, but equally unwilling to taint another's flesh by the touch of her own. Helen, however, realised her mistake almost immediately, and drew her hand back. "Sorry," she said in her beautiful voice. "I forgot." She smiled at Briseis. "I was exactly the same when it happened to me. It was months before I could bear to touch anybody."

"What happened?" Briseis asked shyly.

"I was married to Menelaus," Helen told Briseis with a sad smile that would have broken Briseis' heart, had it not been shattered long before.

Briseis got up while Helen spoke, and followed her in from the balcony. It struck her, then, that the Queen of Sparta must hardly be used to squatting on a dusty floor, or to doing anything but giving orders to those beneath her, let alone trying to comfort them.

"Briseis," Helen began tentatively when they were inside. "You cannot…you _should_ not wear black to Hector's funeral. It would be disrespectful."

Briseis nodded slowly. She understood what Helen said, but could not bring herself to find a solution.

"Why don't you wear blue?" Helen suggested, understanding Briseis' indecision. "It _is_ the colour of the house of Troy."

Briseis nodded gratefully as Helen took a royal blue dress down and handed it to the dark-haired girl.

"Do you wish me to help you?" she offered.

Briseis shook her head, her eyes on the blue cloth as she let it run through her fingers.

"I will go and prepare then. Paris will come to escort you to the hall: I think Andromache might need me."

Briseis nodded again, too exhausted, both mentally and physically, to speak. Helen gazed at the younger woman for a moment, and then left the room on silent and graceful feet.

* * *

When, late that night, Paris came to escort Briseis to Hector's pyre, the girl was a nervous wreck. She wore a dark blue robe, trimmed with gold, and a laurel of dark blue on her head. She was painfully aware of the cut on her nose and the bruises on her wrists, but she had lived in court all her life, and if she had not learnt to hide her emotions, she had learnt nothing.

"Are you ready?" Paris asked, his voice concerned.

Briseis nodded. What else could she do? She could scarcely tell him that she was not ready, and that she would not be if she lived a thousand years.

As the two cousins walked side by side through the deserted passageways an uncomfortable silence fell. Paris, usually so easy-going and amiable, struggled to find something to say, but eventually he spoke, unwilling to let the silence grow.

"You know the gods have protected Hector's body," he told Briseis, offering up what he saw as comfort.

Briseis turned her head to regard him, not encouraging him to speak, but not objecting to it either, and so Paris continued. "His body was unmarked," he explained. "There was no blood on his armour, no sand on his skin, and his hair had been combed and braided with gold thread."

Briseis blinked slowly, to prevent tears from falling. How could she tell her cousin of the long hours she had spent by Hector's corpse, too scared to return to her lover's tent, and unable to leave the brave Hector in the state he was in? How could she speak of brushing the sand from his cold body, of washing his armour with seawater, and combing his hair with her own fingers? If Paris wanted to believe that the Gods protected Hector in death when they had abandoned him in life, then she would let him. Personally, Briseis did not know if she could find it in herself to even respect the Gods any more.

"Are you ready?" Paris asked her again, and Briseis glanced up, startled to find that they had come to the entrance to the huge, temple-like hall where Hector's body lay high on a pyre, bedecked in white and gold. Nodding tightly, Briseis followed Paris in, painfully aware of all the eyes on her.

"Go and sit beside Andromache," Paris whispered into her ear, nodding towards the platform where Andromache sat, Helen beside her with Astyanax on her lap.

Briseis made her way to her seat, avoiding the suffering eyes of Andromache, although she knew the princess was watching her as she sat down, firmly keeping her gaze towards the front.

What could Andromache be thinking now? She shuddered to think. To have to endure your husband's funeral beside a woman tainted by the hands of his murderer would have killed most women, but although Andromache's eyes were red, she showed no other signs of suffering, until Priam and Paris put the flames to the brave Hector's body.

Andromache's already thin face tightened in pain, and tears rolled silently down her taut cheeks. She watched the burning pyre as if she desperately wanted to look away but was unable to. And so she sat, watching her husband's body burn, listening to the cries of her fatherless child rocked gently in Helen's arms, and wondering what was left to live for.

Briseis was close to crying herself by the time the fire had burnt down. It would have been alright, she would have been able to endure it, had it not been for Astynax. The poor, innocent child had lost a loving father, because of _her. _He would never know the man who had loved him and his mother so much.

Briseis felt like she was going to break with the weight of it all. She was carrying the pain of all of Troy on her shoulders because she knew, as well as everyone else who watched the prince burn, that Troy would fall without him. But the worst thing was that, as she watched Hector burn, Briseis realised something. She realised that, could she go back and do it all again, she still would not have killed Achilles. She still would have surrendered to his touch and his love. She still would have let Hector die. She still would have let Troy fall.

She had cried, that first night when he had taken her, long after he had fallen asleep, his forehead almost touching hers, one arm thrown carelessly over her naked waist. She had lain awake for hours when the love and the passion and the desire had gone, and she was left with nothing but an empty feeling of guilt and loss. She had cried silently, scared to wake him, but crushed by the feeling of bitter defeat. And though she had accepted, no, she had even welcomed his touch the next night, it was not until the moment when she sat on the dais, watching Hector burn, listening to the cries of his child and sensing the tears of his wife, that she knew that it had all been worth it. That perhaps, it was not just gratitude that she felt towards him. Perhaps it was something bigger, something greater, something far more terrible.

Tears stung her eyes, but Briseis could not bear to cry in front of all the curious eyes before her. She knew that a princess would push back her own suffering until she was alone, and sit, impassive and unemotional, but, for the first time in her life, Briseis no longer cared. She had spent every one of the seventeen years trying to please those around her, and it all seemed so trivial now. What did any of it matter any more? They were all doomed, so why should she even bother pretending that they were not?

She stood, suddenly, aware of the glances that she was attracting, but no longer caring. She fled the dais, the eyes of the onlookers, the smoke of her cousin's body, and ran down the corridors, no longer about to cry, but instead about to erupt in a fierce anger. She did not stop until she reached her own room, and she entered it at a run, slamming the door behind her, but did not slow down until she hit the railings around her balcony, her upper body pushed over by the momentum. Her hands gripped the rail tightly as she pulled herself upright, and then, very slowly, slid down into a crumpled huddle at the bottom.

She did not know how long she sat there, weighed down by the realisation that she loved Hector's killer, but eventually exhaustion led her to rise and return to her room. She pulled off the robe, tossing t carelessly onto the floor, and pulled a plain black shift over her head before crawling into the large bed.

Briseis lay there for a long time, worn out, but unable to sleep. The satin sheets seemed cold and smooth in comparison to the rough, warm furs on Achilles' bed. And when she finally slept, she woke to find herself reaching out for a body that was not there.


	5. These Hazel Eyes

**A/N – I'm so sorry that this has been so long coming, but I've had a crazy few days. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed – I think I've replied to everyone I could have, and I'm really sorry Amanda-Kay, but for some reason my &/# computer won't let me reply to you – I tried, honest:)And also thanks to Sandra and Tiffany who I couldn't reply to, so thanks to you as well, and I'm so sorry if I've left anyone out!**

**I haven't got much to say about this chapter, except I'm sorry if it sounds a bit like OdysseusBriseis. It's honestly not meant to – she's still in love with out lovely hulking Achilles, so don't panic, lol. Anyway, enjoy…

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**Chapter 5: Behind These Hazel Eyes**

'_Here I am  
Once again  
I'm torn into pieces  
Can't deny it  
Can't pretend  
Just thought you were the one  
Broken up deep inside  
But you won't get to see the tears I cry  
Behind these hazel eyes'_

_Kelly Clarkson, 'Behind these Hazel Eyes'_

Briseis woke as the pale morning light began to creep in through the windows in her room. She yawned sleepily, and, pushing the hair out of her eyes, pulled herself up to a sitting position. The sheets slipped off her body, exposing her skin to the cool morning air, and she shivered slightly. Never having been one to enjoy lounging around in bed after she had woken, Briseis pulled herself to her feet and wandered to the balcony to watch the city wake up.

If she tried hard enough, she could almost pretend that it was a few weeks earlier, and that she was going to spend the day at the temple, or talking with Andromache who was eagerly expecting the return of her husband from Sparta. She could pretend that she had not heard the name Helen, or even Achilles, and that her only worry was whether her hair looked best tied up or let loose.

She wandered through her room, plaiting and unplaiting her hair, her bare feet padding silently across the stone floor, and suddenly realised that she was hungry. It had been, quite literally, days since she had eaten, but in the bitter pain of first Patroculus' death, followed so quickly by that of Hector, and then her return to Troy, she had not felt anything but grief and sorrow.

As she thought about it, the memory of the last meal she had hit her so strongly that she sank down into a nearby chair. She could hear the gentle lapping of the waves, see the flickering torchlight, feel the warmth of Achilles' skin beside hers. She had been sitting on the sand outside Achilles' tent, the great warlord's arms around her, as he talked in soft and rich tones to Odysseus, punctuated by the eager and ever-ready voice of Patroculus. They had been eating a thick meaty stew, typical soldiers' food, mopping it up with crusty bread and Briseis suddenly felt an indescribable longing to return to that perfect evening, when she had leant back against Achilles' warm chest, dozing off to the sound of the men's reminiscent voices. The peace had lasted such a short time, but then, Briseis though bitterly, peace always did.

A tap came on the door, pulling Briseis away from that evening on the beach, and she rose to greet Paris as he entered. He smiled when he saw her, thinking that she looked better than she had yesterday.

"Will you come to eat with us this morning cousin?" he asked her in as normal a tone as he could manage.

Again, the awful fear of appearing before her family washed over Briseis, but she knew she had no excuse this time, having been at Hector's funeral the night before, besides, she was growing hungrier and hungrier by the minute, so she nodded, and was rewarded by a genuine smile from Paris, who was beginning to fear that she was going to try to starve herself.

"Good," he said, thankful that he would not have to force her to eat. "Shall I come and get in you once you are dressed?"

Again, Briseis nodded, and saw the relief in Paris' face.

"I will be back soon," he told her, leaving the room and closing the door quietly behind him.

Briseis wandered over to where her robes hung, looking at them, and longing to touch the soft white material, to return to the temple and forget about the man who had, at once, taught her to love and hate. But she jerked her hand sharply away from the material. It was what she would never be. Clean, pure, untainted. She could not live her life hiding from what had happened. She had to accept it. To move on and get on with her life. It would be a different life, admittedly, from what she had led before, but a life nonetheless.

And yet it was still the black dress that she took down and slipped over her shoulders. She walked back across the room towards the desk where pots of various creams and lotions stood, foisted on her by Andromache. She smiled fondly, picking them up and opening lids, smelling the familiar odours that seemed to come from another lifetime.

She moved to sit on a stool and stretched her legs under the desk as she took the occasional dabs of cream from the pots and smoothed it over her skin. Suddenly her wandering feet hit something under the table. Something sharp, but not so much that it cut her skin. She abruptly put down the pot that she was holding and crouched down to see what it was that she had dropped under there.

Lying on the floor was the seashell necklace that Achilles had wrapped her fingers around when she had left him. She sat there, motionless, aching to touch it, and scared of it at the same time. Her fingers crept slowly towards it, but still she held back, feeling the power that came from it, and drowning in the memory of the night when Priam had arrived, still feeling Achilles' coarse hands on her smooth skin, still smelling his rough scent.

She was startled from the memory by a tap on the door, and Paris' voice calling out to her. She hesitated for a moment, but then grabbed the necklace tightly in one hand before rising and fastening it around her neck before she left the safety of her room.

"You look lovely," Paris told her as she left the room, his eyes strayed to the string of shells around her neck. "And that is quite beautiful. Where did you get it?"

Briseis averted her eyes and looked at the ground. "I made it…" she told him in a soft voice. "On the beach." How could she tell him that Achilles had given it to her?

"Oh," Paris said, unsure how to reply to that, but was saved by Briseis.

"Shall we go then?" she asked him, glancing up with uncertainty and fear in her eyes.

"Yes," Paris said as a flash of anger shot through him at the apprehension in both her voice and her face, though he hid it carefully, knowing that it would do her no good to see how worried he was about her.

They walked down the corridor together in silence. It was, however, not an awkward silence, but a comfortable, almost friendly one. Briseis kept her gaze mostly focused down, occasionally letting her eyes flick up as they passed other people or windows, but she tried to blend into the background, to pass through the halls unnoticed.

Paris however, saw nothing of what was going on around him. An internal struggle was raging fiercely inside him. Part of him knew that it was better to get Briseis out of her room and eating again, but he didn't want her to happen to meet Odysseus who was coming under a white flag of truce to negotiate with Priam. He knew that the chance of Briseis seeing Odysseus was slim, but still he was afraid of what would happen to her if she saw anything that reminded her of her time in the Greek camp. He only knew that she had come from Achilles' tent, he had no idea of where she may have been before that. And so he walked in a heavy silence, desperately hoping that his father would keep talking to the King of Ithaca until he could Briseis safely back into her room.

If Briseis could have been given a chance to run as they approached the door of the hall, she would have embraced it, but she was still a princess, and had had courtesy and confidence drilled into her since she could walk, so she entered the hall, her head, though admittedly not high, with no other visible signs of apprehension.

Helen rose to greet her with a smile on her beautiful face, and if Briseis suspected that Paris had contrived to make her entrance easier by telling Helen to come to welcome her, she showed no signs of it, simply going to sit beside her cousin's lover, and ignoring the curious looks of the rest of her large family.

She looked at the food hesitantly, but as waves of hot, crusty bread and deliciously ripe fruit hit her, Briseis gave in to temptation and eagerly reached for the food. Paris, watching her carefully, relaxed slightly when he saw her take her first mouthful, and though he did not stop keeping an eye on her as she ate, he reached for food himself, and began to talk in as close to a normal voice as he could manage.

Briseis was, for the time being, perfectly happy to sink into oblivion and be forgotten about for a bit. She had never been an attention-seeking girl, but now more than ever, being overlooked seemed like a godsend. Nothing, however, lasts, and it was not long before the attention was turned back towards her, as Helen said, "You're looking better Briseis."

Briseis glanced up, and then nodded uncertainly. "Thank you," she said in a subdued tone.

"Did you sleep well last night?" Helen asked, feeling that it was important to include Briseis and make her feel like she was back in the family.

Briseis shrugged. "Not really. I can't get used to being in such a comfortable bed."

Things would have been alright, had a momentary hush not fallen over the assembled members of Priam's family at that particular moment, causing a remark made from one of Priam's younger sons to his companion to reach Briseis' ears.

"Is the great Achilles' bed not that comfortable then?" he asked with an uncomfortable smirk. He had never meant for Briseis to hear him, but she froze as she heard her lover's name. Her face instantly went an ashen white and she began to tremble. In a matter of seconds Paris saw her change back to the frightened shadow of a girl that had come back to them from the Greek's camp. Now everyone was looking at her, but Briseis did not seem to be aware of it.

"Briseis, it's alright," Paris said, reaching out a hand to one of her pale, shaking ones.

This snapped her from her reverie, and she pulled her hand back sharply, snapping, "Don't touch me!"

She looked around and suddenly noticed the eyes on her. She sat still for a moment, quailing under the force of all of the eyes on her, and then stood up quickly and ran from the room before anybody could see the tears that were threatening to fall.

Briseis fled from the hall, her head down, and tears blurring her vision. She did not know where she was going: the only thought in her head was the desperate need to get as far away from her family as possible. She half ran, half walked through the empty corridors, heedless of the passages she was turning down as she fought with the tears that threatened to engulf her. She had not yet cried since her return to Troy: she would not let herself cry now, just because someone had happened to mention _his_ name.

It was because she was not looking where she was going that, as she flung herself around a corner, she impacted with a body. She looked up, momentarily immobilised with the shock of touching another human, and found herself looking into the eyes of the King of Ithaca. He had put his hand out to steady her as she hit him, and it burnt an invisible brand onto the shoulder that it rested on.

"King Odysseus," Briseis said in a respectful tone when she recovered from the feeling of his skin on hers, bowing her head slightly.

"My Lady Briseis," he returned, his voice gently mocking her formality.

Briseis looked up sharply, not used to people teasing her, but when she saw the amused expression dancing in his eyes she offered him a brief smile: the first since she had left Achilles' side.

"Are you alright?" Odysseus asked as he dropped his hand from her shoulder, his voice full of concern now as he saw the unshed tears in her eyes.

"I'm…I'm fine," Briseis said in a careful voice, looking down again.

"No you're not," Odysseus told her, gently lifting her chin with one finger to meet her troubled eyes. "What is it?"

"It's nothing," Briseis told him, doing her best to make her voice sound reassuring.

Odysseus was obviously not taken in by this, but he nodded anyway.

"What are you doing here?" Briseis asked him, trying to get away from being the topic of the conversation.

"I came to talk with King Priam," he told her. "To discuss the terms of the truce."

"Oh," Briseis said in a quiet voice. "Nobody told me that you would be here."

Odysseus' heart went out to the girl. "Perhaps they didn't want to worry you," he said in a comforting voice.

Briseis nodded. "Perhaps," she agreed. She hesitated for a moment, an internal struggle raging fiercely within her heart as she struggled to stop herself from asking what she longed to know, but eventually could not stop herself from saying, "How is he?"

Odysseus did not need to be told who _he_ was, and guessed correctly that the former priestess was frightened to pronounce the name of the great Achilles. "Well enough," Odysseus answered thoughtfully, wondering what it was that this girl wanted to hear. "He is in one of his moods at the moment: scaring all the soldiers almost witless," he told her with a smile.

Briseis looked up and smiled nervously back. "Perhaps it is better that I am here then," she admitted, giving Odysseus a rare insight as to what was going through her troubled mind.

So she was not certain if it had been the best thing to return to Troy then? Odysseus thought, mulling this over in his mind, even as he said, "I think that if you were there, there would be no reason for him to have such a short temper."

Briseis looked up sharply, both hope and fear at once written on her face. She doesn't know what her cousin has done, Odysseus marvelled to himself. She had no idea of what will come of her stay in Achilles' tent.

"You're not alright," he said, meeting her gaze squarely. "Are you?"

Briseis did her best to hide the rising sob in her throat, but failed miserably. All the sympathy and gentleness that Paris, Helen, Hecuba and even Priam had treated her with had done nothing against the rough but kind empathy of Odysseus, and she found the tears that had been threatening for days now, begin to run down her face.

"Come here lass," Odysseus said, his voice kind, and he drew the weeping girl into his embrace. Briseis rested her head against his shoulder, her sobs muffled by his clothing, her thoughts incoherent as she rested in the comfort and warmth of his hold, knowing that he was someone who understood, though he may not have said it in so many words, he understood what she was going through.

He knew, she thought as she sobbed, he knew that Achilles had not taken her by force, and yet he did not blame her for what she had done. It was him that finally broke through the armour that she had drawn around herself, because he neither blamed, nor judged her, and, unlike her family, was trying to coax nothing out of her, but quite literally offered her a shoulder to cry on. And as the old king held the sobbing girl, he felt like she was the daughter he had never had, and suddenly he felt sick with longing for his wife and son, far away on the shores of Ithaca.

Suddenly Briseis felt Odysseus' body tense, and he dropped his hands away and stepped back quickly from her. Briseis raised her head, tears blurring her eyes, to see Paris bearing down on them, his eyes blazing with a fury directed at Odysseus, and his hand going to his sword.

"How dare you take advantage of my cousin under her own roof!" he spat at the King, all thought for diplomacy gone from his mind. "As if you and your kind didn't do enough to her when she was on the beach."

"Oh stop it Paris!" Briseis said irritably, in no mood to deal with her cousin's melodramatics. "Odysseus wasn't doing anything more than comforting me."

Paris turned his gaze to Briseis, at a loss for words for a moment. "Go to your room Briseis," he said eventually. "I'll deal with this."

"With what exactly?" Briseis asked waspishly, no longer even trying to hide the exasperation that had built up over the days when everyone had walked on eggshells around her.

"With him daring to hurt you," Paris said in a flat tone, glancing back to Odysseus who was watching the exchange with amusement, although he was not fool enough to show it on his face.

"He didn't hurt me!" Briseis said in an exasperated tone. "Will you listen to me for once?"

"Forgive me if I have offended you," Odysseus said to Paris, deciding to end the argument. I promise you that I have done nothing to my knowledge to harm my Lady Briseis."

Paris, faced with denials from both the people involved, had no choice but to back down. "Alright," he said stiffly. "My apologies."

Odysseus nodded to acknowledge this, and Paris turned to Briseis, reaching out one hand to take her arm. "Go to your room while I escort King Odysseus to the gate," he said, but Briseis snatched her arm away sharply.

"Don't touch me!" she snapped angrily at him.

Odysseus suddenly realised the true extent of Paris' anger. If any cousin of his had refused to touch him, and then ended up in the arms of a foreign diplomat, he would have carved them into pieces. Luckily, Paris was not quite so bloody-minded.

Briseis, with a low and graceful curtsey to Odysseus that managed to convey both her gratitude to him, and her disgust for her cousin, left, leaving the King and the Prince alone.

Paris turned sharply and began walking down the corridor. Odysseus fell into step beside him, matching the Prince's silence with one of his own.

They continued that way for some time, before Paris eventually gave in and spoke. "What did you say to her?" he asked finally.

Odysseus shrugged. "Not much," he admitted. "I think…I think she needed someone who knew what had happened to her. It could be too painful for her to speak, and so she just needed someone who understood."

"Maybe," Paris said grudgingly, finding it difficult to be angry with such a wise and courteous man. "I suppose I should be grateful to you. I've been trying to get her to show some emotion since she came back."

Odysseus just nodded, and they walked on in silence for some time more, until they came to the gates of the city where Odysseus' chariot was waiting.

"You will tell Achilles what I have said?" Paris asked finally.

Odysseus nodded. "But I still wish you would not do this," he told the young Prince.

"And why should I take advice from my enemy?" Paris asked scornfully. "Perhaps you are afraid that you will lose your best warrior."

Odysseus sighed. There was no point trying to reason with Paris, who felt any grievances against him as greatly as he felt any love shown for him. The older man simply nodded, and hoped to all the Gods that he could think of, that there was some way to avoid the approaching suffering.


	6. Live Forever

**A/N – As always, thank you to everyone who's updated, it means so much to me that you guys are reading this! Thanks specially to Amanda-Kay: I LOVED your reaction – it made me chuckle :D**

**Not much to say about this chapter, except I'm sorry it's so short! Oh, and at the end – imagine Briseis like Arwen is in 'The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King' when she's imagining her future after Aragorn's died. Do you know when she's standing beside his grave with the wind blowing the veil back? Anyway, that's how I see Briseis then. I'm taking it for granted that you've all seen The Lord of the Rings, and if you haven't – you should! It's such a great trilogy. Anywho, that enough of me talking about other films, this is a Troy fanfic, right? **

**Enjoy** :-)

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**Chapter Six: Who Wants to Live Forever?**

'There's no time for us,  
There's no place for us,  
What is this thing that builds our dreams,

_Yet slips away from us?'_

_Queen, 'Who wants to live forever?'  
_

Odysseus mentally steeled himself as he approached Achilles' tent. Though he had left Troy at midday, it was almost dusk, for he had been obliged to spend the entire afternoon in Agamemnon's presence, and so this would be the first time he saw Achilles since his return from the golden city.

He entered Achilles' tent to find the warlord sitting on his bed, sharpening his blade with long, rasping strokes that made the hairs on Odysseus' neck stand on end.

"You're back," Achilles drawled languidly, not looking up, but Odysseus had known Achilles far too long to be deceived by his show of indifference.

Odysseus sat down and poured himself a cup of wine. If his instincts were right, and he prided himself on the fact that they usually were, then he would be needing it before long.

"So what did the old king say?" Achilles asked lazily, still not looking up from the sword.

"Oh," Odysseus shrugged. "The usual. No combat for twelve days, no Trojan will try to leave Troy until the truce has ended. Nothing particularly new."

Achilles only grunted in reply, continuing his work, but Odysseus could see the internal struggle going on inside him.

"I saw her," he affirmed, answering the unspoken question and saving Achilles from the indignity of having to ask about a slave girl.

Achilles' reaction was immediate. His head snapped up, his eyes momentarily blazing, though with what, Odysseus did not know, for the emotion was gone as quickly as it arrived.

"How was she?" he asked thickly, both longing for and dreading the reply.

"Alright," Odysseus said cautiously, not wanting to insult his friend by lying to him, but equally reluctant to tell the truth for fear of the warlord's reaction. "She is…she seemed unhappy," he told Achilles, who was impatiently waiting for information. "I think that she was very angry with Paris," he finished, all-too aware of how inadequate his description of Briseis' state was. But how could he tell Achilles of how she had clung to him, weeping? How could he say him that she missed him? Or that she was regretting her return to Troy.

Achilles' eyes went flat and angry at Odysseus' words. "If they are treating her badly…" he growled.

"Achilles," Odysseus interrupted, knowing that he could no longer put off the inevitable. "There's something you should know."

Achilles' eyes narrowed, worried by the tone of Odysseus' voice. "What?" he asked carefully.

"Paris challenges you to one-on-one combat," Odysseus said slowly. "Because…because you raped his cousin."

Achilles did not react for a moment, but sat, immobilised by shock. But when he did more, it was with a black anger. "The bitch!" he said furiously, standing up violently, and ignoring the sword that had been resting on his lap as it fell to the ground with a bull thud. "_You_ know I didn't rape her!" he demanded of Odysseus.

The old king nodded quietly, understanding the cause of Achilles' anger. The younger man had once told him that he had three rules by which he lived. Other men set themselves standards and then fell far below them, but not Achilles. He had very few beliefs, but what he did believe in, he would rather die than turn back on. Achilles had taken thousands of years of great philosophers' works, and compressed it into three simple rules for his life. Firstly: never cause undue suffering in battle. And as far as Odysseus knew, he had stuck by this, for Achilles always killed quickly and cleanly. Secondly: never kill priests or children. Again, Odysseus knew that he had never gone back on this. Thirdly: never rape a woman. Not, Odysseus thought, that he had ever had any trouble with this: women were usually tripping over each other trying to get into his bed. And so Odysseus understood, to at least some extent, his friend's rage.

"Why?" Achilles rounded on Odysseus. "Why would she do that?"

"She's scared, and frightened," Odysseus said, his soothing voice doing little to mollify Achilles' temper. "She's probably going through Hades right now, and all her family are telling her that it wasn't her fault that she was raped. She's confused, and the last thing that she wants to do at the moment is stand up to her family."

But Achilles was not listening. He could not hear Odysseus' voice through the memory of her lying in his arms on that first night, sobbing softly to herself, unaware that he was awake. Could it be that she had never felt anything but hatred and disgust for him? That she only showed affection because she was scared? He had never wanted to hurt her, and had she but let him know, then he would not have touched her again.

His emotions, which had only a few short seconds ago been of pity for her, and hatred for himself, turned sharply around. The stupid, silly girl! Had she any idea of what she was doing? Why? He could not understand it. Why would she sit back and watch her cousin and lover fight again. He had to know. The desperate desire for understanding took up his whole being. He had to know.

"Achilles?" Odysseus was asking carefully, watching his friend pace up and down, a myriad of emotions crossing his face. "Achilles!" Finally the pacing warlord heard, and turned, his eyes dead, to face Odysseus.

He shook his head slowly. "Why?" he eventually asked in a hoarse voice. "Why would she do that?"

"She's scared, Achilles," Odysseus told him, trying to get through to him, but he could see that Achilles as not listening. The big man ignored him, but stopped pacing abruptly and turned towards the entrance of the tent.

"Where are you going?" Odysseus asked, standing up, but Achilles ignored him and left the tent, ducking slightly to go through the flap.

"Achilles!" Odysseus shouted, leaving the tent himself and watching Achilles disappear into the night. "Don't be such a fool!" But his words went unheeded, and a few moments later, Achilles' shape had been swallowed up by the darkness.

"Bloody hell," Odysseus said, draining the goblet of wine that he was holding. "Bloody hell."

* * *

Back in Troy, Briseis had no idea of the trouble she was causing in the Greek camp. She was dealing with troubles enough of her own.

Briseis had left Paris and Odysseus that morning in a dull rage, directed primarily at Paris, but also at her family, everyone in Troy, and even the Gods for having abandoned her. Unwilling to obey Paris by remaining in her room like an obedient girl, she had taken a veil and left the palace to go into the city.

She did not attract much attention, for women veiled in black were an all-too common sight on the streets of Troy, and she was finally free to go wherever she wanted without her every movement being watched and judged. She had wandered aimlessly through the city streets for a few hours, drifting around the market stalls and just enjoying the feeling of the sun soaking through her thin veil and enveloping her in warmth.

Eventually her wanderings found her on the city wall, looking out towards the Greek encampment. It was always the same, she thought idly, no matter how she tried to escape from everything, she still found herself returning to look back at _him_.

Briseis stood on the wall that surrounded the city, staring numbly out towards the sea, oblivious to the wind that was beginning to pick up, lifting her veil and sweeping it back across her face. Dimly, Briseis wondered whether _he _was down there, what he was doing, whether he thought of her…whether he even remembered the slave girl who had shared his life and his bed for those few precious days.

And they were precious. Briseis was only just beginning to realise how precious they had really been. And she knew, now, that she would not have left him when Priam had come for Hector's body if she was given the choice now.

For all the pain that he had caused her, Achilles had also taught Briseis to live. Before she had been an obedient niece, a loving cousin, and a devoted priestess, but she had never really lived. Before him, she had never felt emotion. Yes, she had laughed, she had cried, but she had not felt the pain and the ecstasy as her heart was ripped, still beating, from her chest when she looked into those blue eyes, she had not know what it was to soar beyond the realms of human pleasure, or to fall through a endless night of anguish and despair, with no one to catch her.

There were times when she hated him, with every ounce of her being, but this never really lasted. How was it possible to hate the man who had given you life? And so Briseis stood as the shadows lengthened and the sun sank low in the sky, staring out towards the darkening sea, and wondering what she had done that the Gods had cursed her so.


	7. You Found Me

**Ok, so here you go – the revised edition of Chapter 7. And no, Amanda-Kay: don't worry. It wasn't because of you that I've changed this, and I did understand what you meant about Paris. If you're going to flame me, you'll just have to try a little bit harder hun'!**

**I hope this is better – I know the majority of reviews that I got were really complimentary, but I know I can do better (thanks to Siyavash for pointing that out to me), so I hope you like this just as much, if not more, than the last chapter, and that it is actually in character.**

**Anyway, chapter 8 shouldn't be long on it's way, so look out for it soon :D

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**

**Chapter Seven; You Found Me**

'Is this a dream?  
If it is  
Please don't wake me from this high  
I've become comfortably numb  
Until you opened up my eyes  
To what it's like  
When everything's right'

_Kelly Clarkson, 'You Found Me'  
_

It was late into the night by the time Achilles made it into Troy. He stood on the balcony outside Briseis' room, breathing heavily, and looking through the curtain that the wind had blown back from the doorway to where Briseis lay on her bed, on top of the silken sheets, her hair fanned out around her as she slept, her face peaceful.

For one short moment, Achilles considered turning back, but then the anger rose in his chest once more, and he knew that he had to find out why she had done that to him. She may look like an angel when she slept, but she had hurt him more than any human had ever done before, and he had to find out why.

Briseis must have fallen asleep for she suddenly woke up, aware that something was not right. She propped herself up on her elbows, looking around the room. The sun had set and her room was in darkness, but Briseis somehow knew she was not alone.

"Who's there?" she called out nervously, her eyes sweeping around the darkened room as she searched for movement.

"Paris? Is that you?" she called again, aware of how thin and reedy her voice was.

There was no answer, but Briseis saw a shape move by the balcony. An all too familiar shape, and one that was definitely not Paris'.

"Achilles?" she asked tentatively as he stepped through the doorway and into her room, approaching her with firm, deliberate steps. He did not speak but simply continued silently towards her.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, trying to sound brave, for now he was closer, she could see his angry eyes, and his set jaw.

"What are you doing here?" she repeated again, trying to summon the courage she did not feel.

"I need to talk to you," he said, stopping by the bed.

Briseis stumbled to her feet quickly, considering calling for help.

"Then talk," she said flatly.

"Your cousin has challenged me to a duel," Achilles said in a flat, monotonous tone.

"Paris?" Briseis asked, almost shaking with fear.

"Do you want to know why he challenged me?" there was no emotion in his voice, and that was worse than any amount of anger.

Unable to speak, Briseis nodded.

"Not because I killed his brother. Because I raped you." Achilles spoke harshly, each word worse than a blow to Briseis.

He moved towards Briseis, and she took step after faltering step backwards, until she hit the wall. She flattened herself against it, terrified, but unable to move or scream out.

"I raped you," Achilles stressed each word. "Now why would he say that? Unless it was what _you_ told him!" he roared, slamming his palm onto the wall beside Briseis head.

She flinched and closed her eyes, waiting for the blow that never came.

"I have never raped a woman in my life. I did not rape you. You went to my bed willingly. And yet you tell your dear little cousin that I raped you," Briseis flinched as each harsh word fell, cutting into her heart.

Her eyes suddenly flew open and they met the cold blue ones inches from her face. She was suddenly filled with an immense anger: at Achilles, at Paris, but most of all at herself.

"You have no idea what you took from me!" she said suddenly, her anger greater than her fear. "What I sacrificed in your tent! I lost my honour, my reputation, even my self-respect. Now I am nothing: I cannot go back to the temple, I cannot be married off. I will live out my days isolated in the palace for daring to love a Greek!" she hurled the words at Achilles, readying herself for a fight, but he was strangely silent.

"Love?" he asked quietly.

Briseis' eyes flashed with momentary anger at having let herself say that. "Love," she admitted finally, regretting having ever said the word. "And this is my punishment for such a sin," she spoke mockingly, but Achilles heard real regret in her voice.

They stood immobile, each of their eyes on the other's. Achilles' breathing was ragged as he searched for an explanation in Briseis' eyes. He had not expected this from her, and now he was faced with it he was not sure what to do.

"But why did you get your cousin to challenge me to a duel?" he asked finally, in a very different tone from the one he had been using earlier. "I thought you hated it when I fought Hector?"

Briseis' closed her eyes momentarily, weighed down with the load that the memory carried with it. When they opened again they were no longer angry but sad. "I did not ask him to. I never said you raped me. I swear it," a note of panic registered in her voice, for she could not help but be scared of the tall muscular man who leaned over her. "I just did not say that I went to you of my own free will," she finished, in a broken voice.

Achilles did not reply, but Briseis suddenly became aware of just how close he was to her. She could smell the rough scent of leather and horse sweat on him, could feel his breath on her face, and she knew that if she dared to look into his eyes, she would see the same desire in there as burned in her own.

"I…I'm so scared of them," Briseis admitted in a small voice, her eyes firmly downcast and avoiding his eyes. "I've failed them."

"You have not failed," Achilles said, with such ferocity in his voice that Briseis glanced up, and she realised her mistake a fraction of a second before her lips met his in a fierce and violent kiss. Doubts flashed through Briseis' mind for a moment about the wisdom of what she was doing, but her body ached for him so much that these doubts were short lived, and she found herself kissing him back with a desperation and passion that equalled his, her arms snaking around his back and pulling his body closer to hers. Both knew that this would likely be the last night they ever spent together, and all thoughts of tenderness and gentleness were gone in a desperate bid to make all they could of the few precious hours that they had left together.

* * *

Briseis woke in the grey pre-dawn light, her head resting on Achilles' chest. He was awake, gently curling his fingers through her hair as he watched her sleep.

Briseis gave a small murmur and rolled over so that she was facing her lover. He leant forwards and kissed her lightly, and with a sigh, she rested her head on his shoulder. They lay in silence together for a moment, both knowing that they needed to part, both unable to find the will to do so.

"I should go," Achilles' voice was full of regret when he finally spoke.

Briseis murmured something inaudible and curled up tighter against him. He humoured her for a moment, closing his eyes and forgetting everything, but he sensed that the sun was about to rise and knew he would never leave Troy if he stayed.

Achilles kissed the top of Briseis' head gently, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, hunting for his clothes. She passed him his shirt and then sat up, hugging her knees to her body as he dressed.

He threw her a white shift, and she pulled it on and walked over to him, her fingers running lightly down his arms. Their eyes met as she buckled his sword around his waist, and it was all she could do to keep tears from springing to her eyes.

Achilles suddenly realised that he was losing the one thing he really treasured, and he pulled her close. They stood motionless, locked in an embrace neither wanted to end. Briseis felt a tear run down her cheek and she buried her face deeper into Achilles' chest to stop the sobs. Achilles suddenly lifted Briseis tear-stained face up and kissed her gently.

"Briseis," Achilles said softly, releasing her.

"Don't say it!" she warned him in a choked voice.

"I love you," he told her, ignoring her warning.

Briseis gave a small cry and buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

"I told you not to say it!" she whispered.

Achilles bent forwards to kiss her. Their lips touched for the last time, and Briseis thought her heart would break.

"Don't make me grieve for you," she whispered fiercely as they pulled apart.

Achilles nodded once to her, to show that he understood that from the moment he left her room, he was nothing more than a memory to her. She could not let him take over her life, and so she had to let him go, completely and utterly.

They stood facing each other, their eyes locked, for a short moment. Neither spoke, words seeming useless to express their thoughts, and so Achilles' just inclined his head by way of a farewell, before turning sharply and striding across the room and out onto the balcony.

Briseis did not watch him go, but stood still, staring at the space that he had so recently vacated. 'So this is it,' she thought. 'This is where it ends'.


	8. Nowhere to Run

**A/N – Well guys, I'm sorry it's been so long. I've had some mild writer's block and I don't really like this chapter much, but I thought I'd post it and see what you guys think, and then maybe sort it out when creativity returns! Anyway, I hope it's not too bad, and hopefully I'll be back on form soonish :D**

**

* * *

Chapter Eight: Nowhere to Run**

'_Where can you run to escape from yourself?  
Where you gonna go?' _

_Switchfoot, 'I Dare You To Move'_

Briseis walked through the palace gardens, her head held high, her heart burning with fresh resolve. She did not need him, nor did she want him. He was gone: no longer a part of her life, and it was now up to her to forget him and move on.

She knew, deep down, that she was ruined, and she thought that she had come to terms with it. She would never marry, for what man would want a woman soiled by Greek flesh? She would never bear children, and equally she could never return to the temple. The latter was not such a great sacrifice, for, Briseis thought, how could she pay homage to the Gods that had cursed her so? A dry, disconnected part of her mind pointed out that before, she would never had dared to even think such disrespectful things of the Gods, but Briseis found that she no longer cared. They had cursed her already. How much worse could it truly get?

And, as she realised this, a huge weight that she did not even know she was carrying, rose from Briseis' chest, and she suddenly she felt light and free. She almost laughed out loud as she padded through the dewy grass on bare feet, her gown trailing on the ground behind her and soaking up the water on the grass.

And then she came around the corner and saw Andromache. The thin woman was sitting on a stone bench, her body curled forwards and her back shaking as she was wracked by silent sobs. She had her back to Briseis, but sensed her presence and whirled around, angry at the intrusion on her grief.

Briseis paused, uncertain as to what to do or say, and as her eyes met those of Andromache, Briseis flinched as the force of the hatred in those eyes hit her.

She knew. That thought took over and dominated Briseis' mind so that nothing else could break through to calm her sudden terror. Somehow, the grieving Princess knew that Achilles had been with her that night. Briseis stood, frozen, as Andromache walked slowly and deliberately towards her. The red-eyed woman paused a pace from Briseis, her face full of loathing and contempt.

"Whore," she said softly and cruelly, slapping Briseis hard around the face before walking past and leaving Briseis alone in the garden.

It was some time before Briseis found that she could move again. The slap itself had not really hurt her: she had known much worse pain in the hands of the Greek soldiers before Achilles had saved her, but that one word had penetrated to her very soul and caused her more harm than any beating she would ever endure.

Briseis wanted to turn around, to scream at the retreating form of Andromache that she was not a whore, but she found that she could not do it. She could not blame Andromache for hating her, neither could she find it in herself to deny the malicious label that she had given her.

Something in Briseis died then. Perhaps it was because only a few short minutes earlier she had been so content, but whatever it was, it killed Briseis. She moved out of the garden, he eyes dead, her footsteps heavy and her head bowed, filled with shame.

It was as she was walking towards the arched doorway that led from the gardens to inside the palace that Briseis suddenly remembered something. She was not the only outcast priestess in the city. She wondered dumbly why she had never thought of her before: Cassandra. The poor, mad priestess who floated around the palace like a ghost. People turned away as she passed, and closed their ears to her ramblings. But if there was anyone in Troy that she could actually talk to, it would be Cassandra.

So Briseis moved out of the palace gardens and through the stone hallways, her feet, still damp from the dew, leaving a trail of footprints on the floor. She wondered dimly why she was going to see the mad priestess. She had usually been afraid of her, and had done all she could to stay away from her, but now she was somehow drawn to the lonely girl who people avoided, as if she knew that Cassandra would understand.

She found Cassandra standing on a balcony overlooking the city. She wore the traditional white garment of the virgin priestess, and her long dark hair tumbled loosely down over her shoulders. She did not turn when Briseis stepped uncertainly out onto the balcony, but Briseis could see the priestess smile gently.

"I was wondering how long it would be before you found me," she said in a soft, kind voice. "What is it you want?"

Briseis shrugged. "To talk," she admitted.

"You've never wanted speech with me before," Cassandra commented in a wry voice that was not unkind.

Briseis blushed, ashamed both of her actions, and also that they had been so obvious. "Things change," she said finally.

"Yes," Cassandra said, turning to study her. "They do."

"How did Andromache find out?" Briseis blurted out after a moment's silence.

A brief frown crossed Cassandra's face. "You're not meant to believe me," she said in a troubled voice. "You're not meant to believe that I really do know and speak the truth."

Briseis smiled bitterly. "You said Helen would bring ruin to Troy. She has. I would have to be a fool to not believe you after you told us that." When this explanation did nothing to satisfy Cassandra, she continued, "Perhaps it is because we have both been cursed by the Gods," Briseis suggested.

Cassandra sighed and shrugged lightly. "Perhaps," she admitted.

"Do you know how Andromache knows?" Briseis pressed, worried whether it was just Andromache who knew, or if others did as well.

Cassandra raised one eyebrow. "That Achilles was in your bed last night?" she asked, and when Briseis' nodded, continued, "She saw him leaving your room from where she was in the gardens."

Briseis sighed. "Will she ever forgive me?"

Cassandra looked at her. "Would you forgive her if it was the other way around? You made the choice to love him, so you cannot blame her for hating you."

Briseis sighed and looked away. She knew it was true, but she still wished that Cassandra had not been quite so blunt.

"That's what everyone says, or at least thinks," Cassandra commented in response to Briseis' thought.

Briseis looked sharply over to the dark haired princess. "Then why don't you stop doing it?" she asked sharply.

"I cannot," Cassandra answered simply.

Briseis sighed and looked away once, unconsciously straining to see past the high city walls and to the Greek encampment on the distant beaches.

"What am I going to do?" she asked after a moment's pause.

Cassandra sighed. "I cannot tell you that," she said in a kind voice. "I may be able to see the path before you, but it is up to you to place your feet on it."

Briseis looked away again, and the two stood in a comfortable silence, side by side, staring out over the city as the sun rose higher in the sky. Eventually Briseis turned to her companion, and Cassandra could see bright tears standing out in her eyes.

"Cassandra," she asked in a whispered voice. "Am I pregnant?"

Cassandra turned to look at the grieving princess. "What would you do if you were?"

Briseis just shrugged.

"Would you get rid of the child?" Cassandra pressed. "There are ways, you know."

Briseis shrugged again, and then shook her head. "I couldn't," she admitted in a scared voice. "I couldn't get rid of something of _his_."

Cassandra nodded. "And if you weren't?"

"Try and forget about him, I suppose," Briseis said in a dead voice, and Cassandra could tell that her heart really wasn't in it.

"Are you sure you want to know?" she asked carefully. She had hurt so many people by telling them the truth when they did not want to hear it, and she could see that Briseis was already carrying enough pain on her slender shoulders.

Briseis nodded mutely.

"You are," Cassandra told her. "It will be a boy."

Briseis said nothing, but an enormous wave of relief flooded through her, followed by a wave of fear. She now knew, at least, and even knowing that she was carrying the bastard child of Troy's greatest enemy was better than the terrible uncertainty that had haunted her.

"Briseis?" Cassandra asked nervously, scared by the lack of emotion on Briseis' face. "Are you alright?"

Briseis turned her head slowly, her face blank. "Yes," she said. "I'm fine. Thank you Cassandra." And she moved away towards the door.

"Briseis!" Cassandra called after her.

Briseis paused and turned to look back, a questioning expression on her face.

Cassandra sighed. "Be careful," she said, knowing full well how inadequate the words were.

Nothing on Briseis' face showed that Cassandra's plea had registered in her mind, and she turned away, moving as in a trance through the halls of the palace, until she reached her own room.

She closed the door behind her, locking it firmly, and then sank down to a heap at the bottom of the doorframe, her head in her hands, screaming one incoherent word of pain and loss before collapsing into broken sobs.


	9. So Beautiful

**A/N – Sorry it's been so long! I've been struggling quite a bit with writer's block at the moment, and the holidays have just started, so it's been really hard to make myself sit down and write my way through it, but here you go! It's arrived at last. I'm off on camp on Saturday, so you won't hear from me for over a week, but I might just be able to get another chapter up before that – but don't hold you breath!**

**And thank you, as ever, for all the wonderful reviews. May marshmallows and Ben and Jerries Phish Food Ice Cream rain down on you all :)

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**Chapter 9: So Beautiful**

_'I heard that you were living well, but you don't look like your living to me  
Though the sparkle is gone, the smile is in place so that everyone watching can see  
You've got them all convinced, but I know it so well  
That you could list your friends, but you can't count on them  
Hold it now  
You've got everyone convinced that your alright  
When no one else is quite as vulnerable'_

_Dashboard Confessional, 'So Beautiful'_

Briseis changed. She kept herself to herself, never turning visitors away, but hardly welcoming them either. Paris noticed her grow thin and gaunt, for she ate only when forced to do so, and hardly slept, until she had dark bags under her eyes and a haunted expression on her face.

Only Cassandra knew what it was that had killed the grieving Princess, and nobody listened to her, so Briseis suffered alone. It was as if she had given up. She no longer cared about her life enough to fight for it, and, left to her own devices, Paris had no doubt that she would have let herself starve to death.

He was walking down the palace corridors on the eight day of Hector's funeral games. The sun was streaming though the arches in the wall, bathing the stone of the walls in a golden light, and he smiled quietly to himself, remembering how he had left Helen curled up under the silk sheets in their bed, her tousled hair framing her face as she slept. Gods, Paris thought, but he loved her so much.

He paused outside Briseis' room, listening for sounds inside before raising one hand to tap on the door. It had got into a routine: he would stop by on his way to court in the mornings and make sure she ate breakfast. Then he would spend his day trying his hardest to fill Hector's shoes: listening to the various soldiers and priests argue about their strategy once the truce was over, settling petty discussions between citizens of Troy, organising money to be sent to the widows and orphans of soldiers who had been killed in the conflict. He did not know how Hector had coped with it all and still gone round smiling. Then, as the sun was setting, he would make his way back to Briseis' room to ensure that she ate once more, while trying to instil some enthusiasm for life in her, before finally returning to he peace and serenity that only Helen could bring to him.

Hearing no answer to his knock on the door, Paris pushed it open, stepping inside the room. It was so strange, he thought idly, looking about, that nothing in the room had changed since before the war, and yet where once it was the essence of everything that was Briseis: the white gowns, the statuette of Apollo, it no longer fitted its inhabitant.

Paris sighed sadly as he made his way to the balcony where he could see the figure of Briseis curled up.

"It is a beautiful morning," Paris commented to her, stepping onto the rough stone of the balcony, and looking out across the city. And it was a beautiful morning. The sun struck the stone, leaving the city basking in a gentle glow. The air was cool and clear, and outside the city boundaries a light mist was just rolling over the earth.

"Yes," Briseis agreed quietly. "It is."

"Come, Briseis," Paris said in an overly cheerful voice. "What will you have for breakfast today?" and he handed her some bread and fruit, which she ate dutifully while he watched on.

Briseis sat alone when he had left, curled up in a ball on the floor with her hands firmly clasped around her bent legs, her cheek resting against the railing of the balcony. The days had previously passed so slowly for her: each hour stretching out for an interminable length, the days and nights blurring at the edges and merging into one another until Briseis no longer knew how long it had been since her lover had left her bed. Each day now slipped away with unreasonable haste. Each minute brought her one step closer to the day when they would find out about her pregnancy.

Briseis' life was now governed by fear. Fear of her family's reactions when they found out, which they undeniably would do, fear of being outcasted, fear of the birth, fear of having a child as a constant reminder of the man she had known.

Though she knew it was wrong, Briseis hated the child that grew within her. It was nothing like the romantic stories she had read when she was innocent: a lifetime away now. She didn't want something to remind her of _him. _She didn't want a child as 'her only link to the man that she had loved'. That might work for Andromache, but it didn't for her. She didn't want to remember Achilles. She didn't want to bear his child. She didn't want to live the rest of her life with the memory of _him_ weighing down on her heart.

And so Briseis retreated further and further into her shell. She knew that refusing to eat would not stop her swelling waist, or that by not sleeping, time would pass slower, but she was trapped in a cage she could not escape, bound heart and soul to the man that she, in the same breath, loved and hated.

And then there was the knowledge that Paris would fight Achilles. She felt the all-too familiar dread and sick, hollow feeling as she remembered the long night she had spent, alone in the Greek camp, with no one but the body of a much-loved cousin for company. She knew that if Paris crossed swords with Achilles than he would not walk back through the gates of Troy on his own feet, but carried, a fallen warrior, by the great men of Troy. And Briseis also knew that the accusatory eyes would turn on her: if Paris died trying to defend her honour, then it would be her who would be held accountable for his death.

Life was not fair. But it was even more unfair to a woman who had lost her worth on the marriage market. Briseis had lived her whole life knowing that she was inferior to her male cousins: it was just the way life was, and she had never before resented it, until now, when she truly saw how low a standing women, even princesses, had in the Trojan community. She was nothing. No. She was worse than that. She was nothing that had been tainted by the hands of a murdered.

Not that she was ever treated with anything less than utmost love and respect by her family, but Briseis knew that that would all change when they discovered that she carried the child of the man that had murdered Troy's heir, and would undoubtedly murder the next heir of Troy, unless she could somehow make Paris withdraw his challenge.

And it was with these thoughts that Briseis woke each morning, with this in mind that exhaustion took her and sleep claimed her each night. She was alone and afraid.

* * *

Far away on the Greek beaches, the father of Briseis' bastard child was having different problems. Where Briseis fought against sleep, Achilles fought against wakefulness. He seemed unable to sleep, for each time he closed his eyes, he saw _her_ face there, sobbing as he told her that he loved her. 

"Dammit!" he roared in frustration, rolling over and slamming his fist into the soft blankets of his bed, wishing it had been wood or stone, so that he could be distracted by the pain. As it was he stood up sharply, giving up on sleep, and pulled a black robe over his head.

He stalked out of his tent, and along the sand of the beach, unarmed but unafraid of the potential dangers of walking alone close to enemy territory so late at night. His whole vision was taken up with her face, and so he did not notice that his traitorous feet had brought him to the wreckage of the temple of Apollo. _Her_ temple.

Achilles walked slowly through the temple, ignoring the bloodstains on the walls and the damage that had been caused by soldiers ripping everything of value off the walls. He came out at the place where he had seen Hector for the first time: the gallery that looked out over the beaches. He moved to the spot where he had stood on the day when he had taken the beaches, covered in sweat and blood, his sword raised to acknowledge the salute of the Greek soldiers, and he looked out once more. The Greek camp was quiet now: a thousand fires burnt across the beach: each surrounded by a group of soldiers enjoying the last few precious days of safety before they were called on for the raid of Troy.

Achilles sighed and turned his eyes to the city itself. Even from this distance, smothered in darkness, it was a formidable sight. He wondered what she was doing now: probably sleeping, he thought ruefully. He wished, now, that he had dared to ask her to leave Troy and come with him, but he hadn't, and now she was far out of his reach. But, he thought, squaring his shoulders, it was for his own good that he had not asked her. Had she come with him to live on the beaches, and he had been killed, she would have been left totally alone. At least now, when Troy was sacked, he could go straight to her, and protect her, and if by some chance he _was_ killed, her own kin would at least be there for her to turn to.

But all this logic did nothing to stop Achilles wanting, no, needing, her. He missed her. It was as simple as that. Achilles had never missed anything before in his life. If he didn't have something he wanted, he got it. Possessions, land, women: he had never gone without something he wanted. He supposed he was quite spoilt in that respect. He chuckled to himself at that: before _her_ he had never questioned his character, but she had made him do a lot of things completely out of character, and what was even funnier was that he didn't actually mind.

* * *

Eudorus, who had woken as his master had stalked past where he lay asleep in the sand outside the tent, started slightly as he heard Achilles' laugh softly to himself. There was something distinctly sinister, Eudorus thought, about the half-dressed warlord standing on the moon-drenched stone of the temple, laughing to himself. 

Eudorus felt a shiver shoot up his spine, and he backed slowly away from the madman that had replaced his Lord. Women did strange things to men's brains, he thought, shaking his head. He only hoped that Achilles would come to his senses soon, and return to being the hardened warrior that he had known.

Still, he thought, squaring his shoulders as he made his way back to the Greek camp, Neoptolemus: Achilles' only recognised son, should be arriving on the Trojan shore the next morning. Perhaps _he_ could remind his father of what a warrior should be: strong, ruthless, a killer. And as he slowly drifted off to sleep, leaning against the canvas of the tent, Eudorus thanked very God that he could remember, that it was Achilles he worked for, and not his cruel and merciless son.


	10. Goodbye My Lover

**A/N – Sorry it's been so long coming guys! I've just got back off camp, and have missed a whole week of potential revision because of it, so I've been having a minor panic attack – exams only being about a month away now. But still, I've managed to finish this chapter, though there will b one more, possibly two, after this. Now I know this doesn't follow either the Illiad or the film, so sorry about that, but I hope you guys like it anyway. As always, please review!

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**Chapter 10: Goodbye My Lover**

_'You touched my heart you touched my soul.  
You changed my life and all my goals.  
And love is blind and that I knew when,  
My heart was blinded by you._

_I've kissed your lips and held your head.  
Shared your dreams and shared your bed.  
I know you well, I know your smell.  
I've been addicted to you.'_

_James Blunt, 'Goodbye My Lover' _

Achilles stood on the beach of Troy, his hands on his hips, as he watched a great warship with black sails run up onto the beach. His eyes narrowed slightly when he caught sigh of the young man with golden hair and dark eyes standing at the bow of the ship, but this was the only sign of emotion he showed at seeing his only acknowledged son for the first time in four years.

Neoptolemus swung over the side of the ship as it drew to a halt: stopped by the rise of the sea bed, and he landed knee-deep in water, before striding up the beach to where his father waited for him.

Achilles smiled inwardly as he watched Neoptolemus approach: he walked with the same arrogance that his father did, the same careless superiority.

"Father," Neoptolemus said, nodding his head slightly, as he approached. Despite putting on a show of the obedience expected of a son to his father, there was no real respect in either his voice or his manner.

Achilles, however, did not mind this. He acknowledged that the boy had done enough to have at least some pride in himself: where Achilles was seen on a god on a battlefield, Neoptolemus ruled over sea battles with an equal ferocity. The name Achilles would send shivers up the spine of soldiers; the name Neoptolemus would do the same for sailors. They were equals, in their own right, and both knew it.

"You've decided to join us at last," Achilles drawled, looking his son over slowly.

"I have my own battles to fight," Neoptolemus said in a voice far from friendly.

Achilles finally grinned. "So I've heard. You've done well for yourself."

The praise seemed meagre, when it was given to a man who, before his twentieth summer, had sacked at least seven armed coastal cities, beaten some of the most renowned pirates of both the Achaean and of the Aegean seas in ferocious sea battles, making himself and his crew rich. However, from Achilles, even this grudging approval was something quite rare.

Neoptolemus' eyes widened slightly in surprise. "My father acknowledges my worth. Who thought I would live to see the day?" he asked, the sarcasm in his voice doing little to hide the fact that he spoke in the same drawling tones as his father.

Achilles raised one eyebrow at his impertinence, but then a frown furrowed his forehead. "We need to talk," he said, his tone no longer light.

Neoptolemus nodded, and followed the older man to his tent.

* * *

Briseis stood on her balcony, her hands gripping the railing so tightly that her knuckles were white as she stared out in horror at the scene that was unfolding before her. Trojan soldiers were dragging the great wooden statue of a horse through the gates of Troy from where they had found it on the Greek beaches, abandoned, when the Greeks 'fled' the Trojan shores. 

Briseis did not actually realise that she was shaking until she heard Cassandra's calm voice behind her.

"There's really no point in getting so worked up about it," the priestess said in a serene, detached voice. "They'll never listen to us, so why waste your energy worrying?"

Briseis turned around with forced calm. Cassandra must have really lost it this time. To know that somehow this was a trick, and that it would likely result in the sacking of Troy, but to stand there so calmly: it had to be madness.

"But don't you see Cassandra?" Briseis begged. "They'll kill us all…or worse."

A faint smile was playing around Cassandra's mouth. "Oh it'll be worse," she said in a voice that was meant to sound reassuring. "I've always known my fate," she turned her large, hazel eyes to meet those of Briseis, and the former priestess shuddered as she met Cassandra's blank, empty gaze.

"No," Briseis said forcefully. "No, Cassandra. It doesn't have to be as you see it. We'll keep you safe. Paris will protect you." Briseis could see now that Cassandra was not mad. She had simply retreated to a place where, no matter what happened, they could not touch her. She did not know what scared her more: Cassandra going mad, or giving up hope.

Cassandra just smiled blankly at Briseis again, and then swept out of the room, leaving Briseis shaking even more than when she had arrived. She sank down into a huddle at on the floor, more afraid than she had ever been in her life. She knew that Paris had spoken against bringing the horse into the city, and so if the heir to the throne of Troy could not convince his father that it was a bad idea, Briseis knew that she never could.

She did not know exactly what the Greeks' plan was, but she knew that it was a trick. And she knew that it would not end well for her. She balled her hands into tiny fists, her nails biting down on her soft skin, and she tried to be brave: to prepare to meet death, or, as Cassandra had said, something even worse than that.

* * *

It was hot and humid inside the wooden horse. An uncomfortable silence reigned as each man contemplated how close he was to death. Usually, just before a battle the men would be laughing and joking with each other: 'don't wear your helmet tomorrow, maybe the Trojans will see your face and die laughing'. The younger ones looked to the veteransfor reassurance that it wouldn't be as bad as they feared. Some told of miraculous survival stories, others went through pre-battle rituals, as superstition dictated the way in which they would go through what may possible be their last few hours. But none of that could happen in the stifling atmosphere inside the horse. 

Achilles sat away from the other men inside the horse. He distanced himself, not only physically but mentally as well. His mother had told him that he would die on the plains of Troy, and he had no reason to doubt her prophecy. Death did not scare him so much as the thought of not being able to reach Briseis before it took him. If he could only find her, then he would willingly give his life to keep her safe.

He was faintly amused by his own affection for the girl. He had seen, and had, the most beautiful women of Greece, but somehow every defence that he had ever created came tumbling down at the sight of one slender and frightened priestess.

And so he sat, alone with only his thoughts for company, in the bowels of a wooden horse, waiting for his death, just as Briseis did, not so far away.

* * *

Briseis had somehow managed to fall asleep, crunched up in the corner of the balcony, her head buried in her knees. When she woke, the first thing she was aware of was burning. It seemed, as she slowly pulled herself to her feet as if in a daze, that the whole world was burning. 

Then the screams hit her.

As Briseis' ears were suddenly filled with high notes of pain and despair, she snapped out of her stunned state, and burst into action, her eyes suddenly burning with life. She spun sharply on her heels, running across her room in a few short steps. She paused at the door: inside her room she was safe. Outside was death, in the form of Greek soldiers. And yet they would eventually find her in her room. She would not wait for them to come to her. She was not like Cassandra: she could not block out the pain and the despair and hurt around her. If they caught her, she would suffer.

She steeled herself and pushed the door open slowly. She heard rushing feet when the door had only opened a crack, and pulled back quickly, safe in the shadows of her room, until the danger had passed. When the hallway was once more silent, Briseis pushed the door fully open. And threw up.

Slumped against the base of the wall beside the doorway was the mutilated body of the Trojan guard that kept a constant watch by her room. Briseis straightened up, wiping her mouth and deliberately keeping her gaze away from the body. This was no time for hysterics at the sight of the dead.

She took a few paces down he hall, and then paused, torn for a moment. Suddenly, in one fluid motion, she turned back, and, grabbing a knife from the belt of the dead man, spun back around before her stomach could protest again. She slipped the knife up her sleeve before continuing down the passageway.

She didn't entirely know why she had taken the dead man's knife, only that the weight of the metal in her hand was faintly reassuring, and though she did not doubt that she had little chance against fully armed soldiers, she felt very slightly safer with it.

She ran down the dark passageways, lit up only by the glow of the burning city, all the time cursing the material of her dress, which got caught around her legs, slowing her down. Men, women, and children ran in a panicked chaos around her, all intent on saving their own lives from the merciless invaders that were coming.

Briseis skidded to a halt outside the door of Paris' and Helen's rooms, but the door was wide open and the room was empty, apart from a sobbing servant, cowering in the corner. Briseis felt her gut twist in fear. She had been counting on Paris being here to save her.

The former priestess stood immobile as people swarmed around her, filled with a feeling of utter helplessness. There was nowhere to turn to, no one to run to and shelter behind. Briseis drew a steep breath, and counted out three long seconds. When she reached the end she pulled herself together: she had given herself three seconds to panic, and now she had to think calmly. Cowering in a corner would not save her, she doubted that anything would save her, but moving had to be better than staying, waiting to be discovered.

Filled with a resolve that she didn't know she possessed, Briseis moved off down the corridors once more, seeking a place that she had been outcasted from: a place dedicated to something she no longer believed in, a place that she had been dragged screaming and fighting from several weeks ago.

And in the temple, Briseis found some peace. Peace in the knowledge that the end was coming: the waiting would soon be over and she would know her fate. Peace, even through the frantic prayers to the gods that she was not sure even existed. Peace in the knowledge that noting mattered anymore: not love, not her pregnancy, not her shame. Soon, it would end, and she would be free.

* * *

Achilles ran through the city streets, his heart pounding and his mouth dry, only one thought in his mind: a desperate, urgent need to find Briseis and protect her. Nothing mattered anymore to him. He knew he would die this night, and as long as he saved her in doing it, then he could accept death. Everything was planned for after his death, everything was worked out, and he knew that he could welcome death in the knowledge that he was leaving nothing behind him undone. 

And then he saw her: she was in front of the temple alter, her body pressed up close to Agamemnon's, his thick, fat hand wrapped around her neck. Achilles felt a wave of fear wash through him, followed by one of anger. He had vowed once that before the war was over, he would stand over Agamemnon's body and smile, but that victory would be nothing but bitter if his own lover's body lay there too.

He was running towards Briseis when he saw one slender hand come up and a brief flash as light caught the metal, before Briseis buried the knife in the king's neck with a force born from fear.

Even as she plunged the knife into Agamemnon's neck, Briseis felt her stomach heave with disgust and panic, and she was running as soon as the king hit the ground. Not soon enough though, for moments later she felt herself captured by strong hands as the two guards grabbed hold of her, and she was suddenly facing death head on.

And then Achilles was there, like and avenging angel, sweeping down to save her at what she had been sure was her last hour, and then she was in his arms, for what felt like the first time in an eternity of loneliness despair, and she was finally safe, protected, loved.

But nothing lasts, and the next thing Briseis knew, she saw Paris standing above them, slowly and deliberately notching and arrow onto his bow, his eyes trained on Achilles. Briseis heard a scream and realised it was hers, and Paris', put off by the cry from Briseis, sent the arrow through Achilles' heel, instead of his chesat. Achilles threw his head back as he was hit, and as the arrow pierced her lover's flesh Briseis felt the pain in her own heart.

And then everything turned into a horrendous blur. Briseis saw Achilles rise, and she was screaming at Paris to stop, but arrow after arrow was unleashed upon her lover, and still he kept moving forwards, raising his sword painfully.

Finally Briseis managed to get her legs to work, and she ran towards Paris, sobbing and pleading for him to stop. But it was not her beloved cousin who stood there: it was some monster, consumed by bitterness and a desire for revenge, and Briseis turned away, in time to see her lover slump down onto the grass, pulling an arrow from his chest.

And then she was by his side, overcome by a desperate need to feel his body against hers. She felt his arms come to hold her, and she could feel his muscles quivering slightly, although he was trying to not show the pain that he obviously felt.

Briseis was crying, but Achilles murmured soothing words in her ears. "It's alright," he said softly, breathing in her scent that always intoxicated him. "You gave me peace, in a lifetime of war."

Briseis buried her face in his shoulder, hardly understanding what was happening. Achilles could not die; she could not live without him.

And through her tears she heard a voice she hated.

"Briseis, come," Paris said urgently from where he stood some distance away, choosing to ignore the fact that Briseis was crying for Hector's murderer.

"Go," Achilles told her gently. "You must go."

Briseis shook her head stubbornly, and Achilles ran one finger along the line of her jaw, kissing her mouth softly, trying to implant every memory of the way that she smelt, felt, spoke, in his memory for the long years that he would have to wait on the far banks of the Styx for her.

"Briseis come," Paris' voice again. "Troy is fallen. I know a way out."

"No," Briseis murmured in a pained voice, unable to turn away from her dying lover. For he really was dying. Briseis knew it now, even if she could not understand it.

Achilles glanced up at Paris. He knew that Briseis would be safe if she stayed here: he would make sure that he stayed alive long enough to see her placed in safe hands, but if Prince Paris could get her away from the city, then it would be better for her to be with her own kin.

"It's alright," he told her. "Go. You must."

"Briseis come," Paris said once more, his voice more insistent this time: it was an order now, not a plea.

Perhaps that was what made something inside Briseis snap. The idea that he had the nerve to order her to do something after he had ripped her heart out, made a fierce fire burn inside her, and before she knew what she was doing, she turned towards him, her tear-stained eyes blazing fiercely.

"Get out of my sight," she hissed at him.

Paris said nothing: he had never seen Briseis angry, not really angry, and he did not know how to deal with it.

"Get out of my sight!" Briseis screamed at him this time. "You think I could stand being anywhere near you after you have done this to me?" her voice had dropped to a dangerous, low tone once more, but Paris did not seem to catch the threat in her voice.

"Come, Briseis," he tried once again. "They'll kill you if you stay here."

Briseis laughed, but it was a dry, harsh laugh, devoid of any humour. "Oh I'm already dead," she told him in a toneless voice. "You saw to that when you put an arrow through the man I loved."

Paris stared at her for a moment, and she stared back, daring him to make some comment, but then she heard a sound from Achilles behind her, and spun around swiftly to see his face contorted with pain.

Paris immediately forgotten, she dropped to her knees, her eyes immediately filling with concern as she pulled Achilles close to her. when she glanced backwards a moment later, Paris was gone.

"You didn't need to do that you know," Achilles' eyes were closed, and he was breathing heavily, but Briseis could just hear his pain-filled words.

"Ssh," she said reassuringly, it now being her turn to soothe him. "It doesn't matter. I'm not leaving you."

"I've made sure that you'll be safe," Achilles managed to say, stubbornly refusing to stop speaking. "You have no need to be afraid."

"I am afraid…of life without you," Briseis said in a small voice.

Achilles managed to smile through the pain, and one trembling hand reached out, drawing her closer to him, so that he was enveloped in her scent. "I…I love you," he told her, before his hand fell down with the effort.

"And I love you too Achilles," Briseis whispered fiercely, "Never forget that."

But he never heard her last words, for his body had slumped against hers and his eyes closed, never to open again.

Briseis sat, stunned by the pain racing through her body. As Achilles' last breath had left him, Briseis felt like her own heart had been ripped, still beating, from her chest. She could not breathe, she could not move. She could hardly see, for the scene around her was growing darker and darker, and then the shadows engulfed her, and she fell forwards over the body of her lover, her head resting on his bloody chest, her slender hand over his heart.


	11. Crying for No One

**A/N – Sorry this is such a short chapter. I think it's going to be the penultimate chapter, but I'm not sure – I'm never organised enough to write chapter plans, so you'll have to forgive me on this one.**

**As ever, thank you for all the wonderful reviews – one more and I'll have 100! So exciting :) Anywho, I hope you like this chapter. I'm not really sure what happened here – I never had any real plan for Neo, but he seemed to want a bigger part in the fanfic than I'd planned on giving him, so here you are.

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**Chapter Eleven: Crying for No One**

'_One by one  
Only the good die young  
They're only flying too close to the sun  
Crying for nothing  
Crying for no-one  
No-one but you'_

_Queen, 'No One But You'_

Odysseus pushed through the crowd of soldiers surrounding the body of Achilles, followed closely by Neoptolemus. The soldiers stood back a respectful distance, watching as friend and son approached the body of the man they had all thought of as invincible, ignoring the crumpled bodies of their king and his guards.

Odysseus dropped to his knees, checking for a pulse on his old friend's neck, while Neoptolemus carefully drew Briseis' unmoving body from where it was draped across Achilles' chest, revealing the arrow wounds in his armour.

"She's still breathing," Neoptolemus told Odysseus, and felt a strange emotion flood through his body: relief. Neoptolemus could not remember the last time he felt like he did knowing the pale girl lived, but the unfeeling side of him told him that it was just because he knew that Achilles, dead or alive, would find a way to kill him if he let any harm come to the former priestess.

"But only just," he added after a moment, listening hard to her shallow, uneven breaths.

"Is she injured?" Odysseus asked, his voice tight with grief.

"No," Neoptolemus said after briefly checking her. "It's probably just shock."

Odysseus nodded slowly. "Get her back to the camp. Put her in my tent if you want. I'll see to…to the body."

The younger man nodded, and rose, cradling the thin girl's body carefully in his strong arms. Another man may have thought that Odysseus was acting very callously over the death of his best friend, but Neoptolemus had seen many men die in battle, and had seen many reactions to death. Odysseus would grieve when he had the time, but he was a soldier first and foremost, and a soldier could not let emotion interfere when there were still battles to be fought.

Neoptolemus' face still wore its characteristic cruel sneer, but he held Briseis gently, almost protectively, as he walked slowly through the burning city and down towards the shore. Ignoring the screams of the dying and the pleas of womes chased by lust-filled soldiers, he looked down at her face as he walked, wondering what his father - the infamous womaniser - could have seen there to make him give up his own life.

Briseis stirred and murmured slightly as Neoptolemus shifted his grip of her, but she soon fell back into the light unconsciousness, making the new Lord of Phthia speed up his pace slightly. He had made his father and oath, and would not dare enter the underworld if he let anything happen to the girl in his arms, for fear of his father's wrath.

* * *

When Briseis woke, all she was aware of was an overpowering sense of loss, though for a moment, she couldn't understand why. She was laid out in a soft bed: warm furs tucked carefully around her, inside a tent. Early morning light streamed through the open flap, letting Briseis know that she had not been asleep long. 

She couldn't see how anything could matter again: she supposed vaguely that she had been taken as a slave, but she didn't care. Nothing mattered, for _he_ was dead. She was just about to roll over and curl up again, when a movement across the other side of the tent caught her eye, and, against her wishes, she propped herself up on her elbows to look.

Neoptolemus, who had been cleaning his father's armour, ready for the funeral later, saw his charge move slightly, and he glanced over at her to see her staring at him, her eyes wide with shock.

"But…you're dead," she whispered, her voice full of fear and panic.

Neoptolemus frowned slightly, before his eyes widened in understanding. "I'm his son," he told her, realising that she thought he was Achilles, and with good reason: he looked much like his father, and with Achilles' armour in his hands she could be forgiven for thinking so much.

Briseis' eyes clouded in grief, and she closed them tightly. "Then he's…" she could not bring herself to finish sentence.

"Yes," Neoptolemus said, no emotion in his voice.

Briseis nodded slowly, her face downcast and her eyes still firmly shut. "What happens now?" she asked quietly.

"You are now in my care," Neoptolemus told her in his usual deadpan voice, which gave no clue as to his sentiment at the thought. "As I was ordered by Achilles."

Briseis' eyes flashed open for a moment, and she looked up at the unsmiling warlord. "He asked you to?"

Neoptolemus shrugged. "He told me to. It seems he cared for you," he said it almost curiously, as if he could not understand the sentiment.

Briseis just shrugged. "Has he been…have they…" she tailed off miserably.

"Burnt him yet?" the blond man asked. "No, not yet. Odysseus seemed to think you would want to be there."

Briseis nodded again, still looking firmly downwards.

Neoptolemus sighed. "You might as well get some sleep. I'll wake you when they do," he promised, displaying an unusual act of compassion.

Briseis rolled over, her back to the man whose very sight sent waves of grief through her, so closely did he resemble the man she loved, and she let despair swallow her up.

* * *

Neoptolemus was still staring at the sleeping girl when an exhausted, smoke-blackened Odysseus entered the tent. He glanced over to Briseis and then moved across the tent to wash his face. 

"Has she woken?" he asked Neoptolemus in a dead voice.

"Briefly," Neoptolemus replied in a quiet voice, so as not to wake the sleeping girl. "I said I'd wake her when we burn him."

Odysseus nodded, his jaw tightening slightly, as he washed away the traces of smoke, blood and grief from his face.

"You will take her back to Phthia?" Odysseus asked, sitting down and removing his armour.

"I said I would, didn't I?" Neoptolemus answered, his voice curt.

Odysseus glanced up, and the new Lord of Phthia noticed how the King's face had aged several decades in the space of one short day.

"Forgive me, friend of my father," Neoptolemus said, his voice oddly ritualistic. "It has been a hard day."

* * *

Late that evening, as he stood watching his father's body burn, Neoptolemus turned his head slightly to see Briseis slipping away from the pyre, passing silently through the ranks of the soldiers, and leaving her lover's burning body behind her. 

She had not spoken since Neoptolemus had woken her in the late that afternoon. She had turned down suggestions that she should light the body, and had held back from the pyre and the body, almost as if she was afraid to approach it.

Neoptolemus hesitated for a moment, and then followed Briseis' retreating form, telling himself that he was doing it for her own safety, while truthfully he did not know what made him follow the grieving girl.

He found her on the blackened remains of Troy's walls, her knuckles gripping the rough stone tightly as she started out over the moonlit sea of sand to the Greek encampment and the sea beyond it.

Neoptolemus paused at the top of the stairs, but Brisies spoke, obviously aware of his presence. "Are we leaving this place?" she asked in a numb voice.

"I take you to Phthia," Neoptolemus told her, moving forwards to stand beside her. "You will live there with my mother until her death, which, I think, is not far off. Then Odysseus has offered you shelter in Ithaca, if you will go there."

Briseis said nothing, and made no movement to show that she had heart, but silently she was grateful to the grim-faced man who had set out the next however many years of her life without doing so much as consulting her. The last thing she wanted at present was to have to make decisions. And yet there was one thing he should know…

"My Lord?" she asked tentatively.

"Neo," he interjected firmly.

Briseis looked slightly surprised at this, but continued. "Neo, then. I'm…I'm pregnant," she told him, her voice trembling slightly. It was the first time that she had actually spoken the fateful words that had filled her with such fear.

"Is it Achilles' child?" Neoptolemus asked bluntly.

Briseis nodded.

"Then there is no problem," he told her, fighting to keep his voice calm, when inside his guts were twisting painfully. If he had thought that she was out of reach before, it was nothing to what she was now. She had been his father's lover. That was bad enough. She was carrying his child – worse, though still not hopeless. What turned Neoptolemus to despair was the knowledge that she still loved Achilles. She probably always would. And that simple fact made her as unattainable as any queen.

Briseis turned to him, her eyes trusting, her face betraying her ignorance of his eternal struggle.

"Thank you," she whispered, rising up on tip-toes to kiss his cheek before walking away, leaving a man who felt, for the first time in his life, something other than contempt for another human being, and was unable to do anything about it.

Had Briseis turned around, she would have seen a hand move up to touch the cheek she had kissed, or the unguarded expression in the warlord's eye that betrayed him.

But she did not turn, she did not see. And so she never knew that the Lord of Phthia, the man who fought with the strength of the Gods, and whose name struck fear into the hearts of his enemies had fallen, terribly and irrevocably, in love with her.

* * *

That night, curled up in the warmth and safety of Odysseus' tent, Briseis let herself cry. She did not weep desperately for her fallen lover, or sob like her heart was breaking. Instead, one lone tear ran silently down her cheek: the only real sign of grief she had shown since waking earlier that day. 

She had not had the strength to see _his_ body one last time before it was burnt, and she did not feel worthy of lighting his pyre. Odysseus had known him all his life, she had known him only a few short weeks, and they had been separated for most of that. If anyone should send Achilles to the boatman, it should be the only man he had ever had any respect for.

Briseis sniffed, wiping the tears off her face. She briefly wondered what had happened to Paris, before deciding that she didn't care. He had taken Achilles from her, and it would be a very long time before she ever found it in her heart to forgive him for that.

So now she was leaving Trojan shores for the first time in her life. She felt nothing at the thought of going to Phthia: it was as if her mind had become numb, to protect itself, because the pain of the last few days would probably send her mad if she could feel it.

She thought briefly of Neoptolemus: the man who looked so much like his father and was not charged with her care. Men called him cruel and merciless, but to Briseis he had never been anything but courteous and compassionate. He was a good man, Briseis thought, as she slowly drifted off to a sleep haunted by memories of a tall, god-like man who had shown her what it was to actually live for once.


	12. My World Crashed Down

**A/N – why hello there! Sorry I've been so long in updating but I've really been struggling with this chapter. I still don't really like it, but I thought I'd just stick it up on the site, and then you guys can tell me the worst bits, because I've read and re-read it so many times that it's become pretty meaningless. Anywho, please do say what you think of it, good or bad, and I'm almost positive that this is the penultimate chapter, though I'm not sure how long I'll be getting the final chapter up.**

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and please do the same for this one!

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'_The greatest story was you and me.  
Had it all we had everything, but now the  
Story's done it's just history.  
The last act is over.  
Your every line had the sweetest sound.  
Your every touch turned my world around.  
But then the light came up and my world crashed down.'_

_Meat Loaf, 'Not a Dry Eye in the House'_

**Chapter Twelve: My World Crashed Down**

When Briseis woke in Odysseus' tent the next morning, the first thing she was aware of was voices behind her. She was lying with her back to the centre of the tent, buried under a pile of blankets that she guessed Odysseus or Neoptolemus must have put over her the night before, because she was sure she had just curled up in exhaustion and slept, oblivious to such minor things as comfort and warmth when filled with the coldness that had gripped her since _he_ had been taken from her.

Not moving, mainly because she saw no reason to, Briseis let herself tune into the voices behind her, and she listened to them through her dozing state.

"Please, let me take her." That was Odysseus voice. Briseis had never heard the king pleading before, and guessing that the 'her' he referred to was herself, Briseis could not help but be mildly interested.

"She was trusted to _me_, old man," Neoptolemus was saying. "What do you want with her?" The animosity in the new Lord of Phthia's voice was scarcely veiled, and it shocked Briseis, because although she had heard rumours of his cruelty, he had been nothing but a gentleman to her.

Odysseus was speaking now, his tone edgy as he said, "I'd feel safer if she was with me."

"Don't you trust me?" Neoptolemus mocked.

"You must know your reputation," Odysseus shot back. "She's an innocent."

"She's pregnant with my father's child!" Neoptolemus interrupted, his voice incredulous.

"She's still an innocent," Odysseus said softly.

There was a momentary silence, before the younger man spoke again. "Tell me then," Neoptolemus asked scornfully. "What _is_ my reputation?"

There was a measured silence as Odysseus weighed up Neoptolemus mood, for the warlord was at the best of times unpredictable. Deciding to be blunt, the King of Ithaca said, "They say that you make Achilles look merciful. That you take what you want with no thought as to you hurt. That you torture, rape and murder at a whim. That you worship no God and show loyalty to no man."

There was a silence that seemed to stretch into eternity, and Briseis felt a cold fear grip her heart. She had thought that she was safe with this man. She had let her guard down with him, and Odysseus' words now left her paralysed with fear. She desperately wanted to get away: far away. She wanted to stop having to fight every second of every day. She wanted Achilles. But instead all she had to protect her was she had his son, who Odysseus was implying only had taken an interest in her in order to bed her.

"Like father, like son eh?" Neoptolemus said, his voice slightly bitter.

Odysseus shook his head. "No," he said. "Achilles never caused unnecessary pain."

Neoptolemus looked down, and when he glanced up again the callousness was gone from his eyes, and had been replaced by a hollow, sunken look. It was an expression that scared Odysseus more than the usual ruthlessness and vicious sneer that marked the young man's face.

"I wouldn't harm her, Odysseus," Neoptolemus said in a broken voice, scarcely audible. "I would never harm her."

Odysseus met the other's man's eyes and held them there for a long time, until he slowly began to understand. He nodded sharply and rose, saying, "Be good to her. She's been living in Hades since the war began," before he left the tent.

"Haven't we all?" Neoptolemus said softly, so nobody but Briseis heard.

* * *

Three days later found Briseis standing at the ship's rail, staring moodily out across the sea, that seemed to dance and sparkle with such life and joy only to mock her. It was not the first time she had been on a ship, although she had only been six when she had been brought to Troy: the sole survivor of a raid on her parent's home, and she scarcely remembered the journey, for it was overshadowed by grief, pain and fear.

Briseis sensed more than heard or saw Neoptolemus join her at the rail, and she risked a quick glance at him to see that he, like her, was standing with his hands on the rail, staring out across the sea. Briseis quickly look away from him and focused back on the unchanging scene before her. Something about Neoptolemus, while not exactly scared her, certainly unsettled her. He was too unpredictable and capricious for her to entirely trust him, and although he had never been anything but polite to her, she had no reason not to trust Odysseus' judgement, and the old king's words when they thought she was asleep had unsettled her.

"Why aren't you crying?" Neoptolemus suddenly asked her, startling her out of her pensiveness. Briseis had grown used to his strange questions: questions that most people would never ask, for fear of sounding rude. This never seemed to bother Neoptolemus though.

Briseis thought about it. It was true: she had hardly cried since her lover's death, and she knew that theoretically she should have at least shown some signs of grief.

"I'm afraid that if I let myself start," she finally answered hesitantly. "I'd never stop."

Neoptolemus considered this for a moment, looking at her thoughtfully as if he couldn't really understand the sentiment of grief. He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something when a shout came from behind the pair, and he turned away to answer, leaving Briseis alone again, with nothing but her thoughts.

* * *

Briseis was desperately lonely. She had not really had companionship since the day the Greek ships arrived on the shores of Troy. Achilles…well, he had been kind and good to her, but she had still been afraid of him, and had not been able to confide in him, as she would have liked to. Then on her return to Troy she had been effectively cut off; ostracised and shunned by her own kin. And now, on the ship bearing her away from her home of over a decade, she had no one for company but a volatile, unpredictable warlord, who both terrified and fascinated her.

He would call for her in the middle of the night, and she would find him in his cabin, his eyes lined with exhaustion, sitting lazily in a chair, a stack of official papers at his side as he softly stroked the heavily pregnant cat in his lap.

He would smile crookedly at her as she entered, not seeming to appreciate that most normal people were asleep at that time of the night, and ask her seemingly random questions, wanting her to tell him about Troy, or the temple, or her childhood, or any number of topics.

And Briseis would answer him, would tell him what he wanted to know, watching him with uncertain eyes as he stroked the cat, a soft smile on his face, until he would finally glance up, and, as if noticing how late it was for the first time, and would send her back to bed with grave consideration. And she would go, and fall asleep almost instantly: fatigue having taken her over in these first few weeks of her pregnancy, and in the morning she would wonder whether their night time conversations had only been a dream.

* * *

It was on one cool night about half way through their voyage that Briseis woke with a start, drenched in a cold sweat, gasping for breath as her heart pounded painfully in her chest. It took her a moment to adjust to the darkness of the tiny candlelit cabin, and realise that it had just been a dream, and that she was safe. If safe was really the right word for her circumstances. She was on a ship with an unknown number of soldiers who had been separated from women for months, led by an embittered warlord. And yet she was as safe as she could be, given her circumstances.

Briseis' breathing slowed and her heart rate gradually returned to normal, but the fear from the nightmare was still vivid. She had dreamt that she was back in the Greek camp, on her second night of captivation, when Agamemnon had handed her to the soldiers. Except this time, there was no Achilles to save her. She was being tossed from man to man, screaming and screaming his name, waiting for him to step out of the shadows and sweep her up in strong arms, but he never appeared.

Briseis shuddered, climbing out of the sweat-soaked bed and pulling a thin wrap over her trembling shoulders before silently opening the door, slipping past the sleeping guard, and making her way up onto deck. She paused for a moment as she came up the ladder, letting the cool breeze scour her of the feeling of the men's hands on her body, and clear her head of the pain and dread that had seized her as she slept.

A movement caught the pale girl's eye, and she turned her head to see the shape of Neoptolemus standing by the rail of the deserted ship.

"Sorry," Briseis said, alarm in her eyes if not in her voice. "I didn't realise you were there."

"What are you doing here?" Neoptolemus asked, his voice grave and tired. "You should be asleep."

"I could say the same for you," Briseis commented dryly, crossing the deck on bare feet to stand beside him, staring out across the dark sea.

"I asked first," he said, a faint smile on his face as he turned to face out in the same direction as her.

"I couldn't sleep," Briseis said after a moment's pause.

When her companion did not answer Briseis risked a sideways glance at him to, to see the shadow of a frown on his face.

"Why not?" he asked.

Briseis shrugged. "Dreams."

Neoptolemus' expression softened slightly, and he nodded.

"But what about you?" Briseis asked, pushing away the memory of the dream.

He turned his head to look at her, and for the first time Briseis saw his face clearly, illuminated by the soft moonlight. She was shocked by how gaunt and tired his usual ruthless face was. He looked twice his age, his eyes filled with something Briseis could not describe.

Instinctively she reached out to touch his face, as if to try and give some of the warmth from her body to him.

"You should sleep," she told him in a concerned voice, the way she would speak to the brothers she lost in the raid on her home twelve years previously.

Neoptolemus smiled tiredly, taking her hand and kissing it gently. "I rarely sleep anymore," he told her. "There's always so much that needs doing."

"Work?" Briseis inquired, her own pain and misfortunes momentarily forgotten.

"Some of the forts I've captured over the years cause me more grief than they're worth," he told her, releasing her hand. "And now with Phthia to govern as well…There's always a dispute to settle, a tax to be changed. So many insignificant, petty things!"

"So let other people do them, if they're so insignificant," Briseis said.

Neoptolemus smiled crookedly at her. "And give powerful men even more power? I wouldn't trust any politician with my own life, let alone that of any of my people."

It was remarks like that, Briseis thought, that always caught her off-balance. She wouldn't have thought that he valued his people over himself, and yet he said it with such a casualness that Briseis knew he didn't think anything of it."

"Please get some sleep," she begged him. "You shouldn't do this to yourself."

"How can I deny such a pretty face?" he asked with a wry grin. "I'll be down in a minute. You should go down, you'll catch a chill."

It was true, Briseis was shivering slightly in the night breeze, but she stayed stubbornly by his side, loath to leave him.

"It's alright," he told her, glancing at her face. "I promise I'll go down in a moment."

Briseis, deciding that he was telling the truth, nodded, and turned to leave him, returned to the warmth of below-decks.

* * *

It was as she was changing into warmer clothes back in the comfort of her cabin that Briseis noticed it first. A small trickle of blood running down the inside of her leg. And it was in that moment that any hope Briseis might have had for her future, anything beyond the despair that had been threatening to engulf her since she had woken to find Troy burning, was lost.

The rest of that night passed in a haze of pain, blood and waves of anguish. And then, through it all, there was Neoptolemus, washing her body with cool, damp cloths, soothing her cries of pain and distress, wrapping her in clean sheets and holding her as she clung to him, finally weeping the tears she had been so afraid to she before.

She did not know how he had got there, she did not even know when he had arrived, for there had been times that the sharp, agonising pain in her abdomen had made her lose all awareness of her surroundings, but slowly, as the pain eased and her blood stopped, she clung to him, desperate for some warmth to escape the icy coldness that had grasped her heart.

"I would have called him Patroculus," she whispered to him through her tears as he smoothed her hair down, rocking her gently. She did not know why she told him, only that it was somehow important for him to know.

He did not answer, but just tightened his hold of her very slightly.

* * *

It was a long, dark night for both of them: Briseis lost the little hope that she had previously had, in the knowledge that she was now truly alone, and filled with guilt that she had failed Achilles in being unable to bear his son.

Neoptolemus, whose heart had grown cold with fear when he heard the girl's cries of pain as he passed her cabin door, held her as a brother would hold a grieving sister, soothed her and whispered words of scant comfort to her, even as he came to the realisation that as soon as he saw her in his grandmother's arms, he would have to leave her.

It was probably only lust, he conceded as he watched her sleeping in his arms; damp hair slinging to her face, beautiful even through all the pain and anguish. What did he know of love anyway? He was a killer, incapable of love. He told himself this over and over, until he had almost convinced himself that it was true. He knew he had to leave: to get away from her before he did anything he would regret. It would be easier for them both that way. He would not have to suffer from seeing her everyday and knowing she didn't love him. And she, well, she wouldn't have to see him everyday and know that he did.

And so he gently laid her body down onto the fresh, clean sheets, and watched her for a moment in the flickering candlelight before stooping to place a single, chaste kiss on her forehead and leaving her to a sleep haunted by shadowy figures of her parents, her lover and a son, dead before he had even seen the light of day.


	13. Easier to Run

**A/N – I updated! After I have no idea how long. I hope you're proud. The chapter wasn't particularly difficult to write, I just couldn't be bothered, so sorry about that. Hope it doesn't disappoint, and enjoy!

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**Chapter Thirteen: Easier to Run**

_'It's easier to run  
Replacing this pain with something numb  
It's so much easier to go  
Than face all this pain here all alone'_

_Linkin Park, 'Easier to Run'  
_

Neoptolemus watched Briseis out of the corner of his eye as they sailed into the harbour at Phthia. The young woman stood at the edge of the ship, her hands resting lightly on the ship's rail, and her head held up: a proud defiance directed at the curious onlookers that lined the low cliffs surrounding the harbour. But Neoptolemus could see the dead, haunted look in her eyes that told him that her bravado was nothing but a show. Since her miscarriage Briseis had changed. It was as if a part of her had died. No spark of life danced in her eyes, and her voice, when she did speak, was hollow and distant. The girl he had thought he knew was long gone: in her place stood a woman, scarcely twenty, and yet whose face betrayed wisdom and sorrow far beyond her years.

Neoptolemus sighed slightly, turning away from the grieving girl, to look with remote, unfeeling eyes at his new subjects. They stared back with an equal coldness, and he already knew what whispers were going around about him, about his cruelty, his heartlessness. 'And let them talk,' a vicious part of his brain said; it wasn't as if they said anything that wasn't true. They should fear and respect him, and pray not to fall under his displeasure.

It was nearly over: the long, torturous journey that he had to endure with an untouchable beauty. Soon he would be far away from her and everything that he desired. He would be back on the sea with his men: each as merciless and ruthless as himself, and soon the new Neoptolemus; the one that desired for a woman and had the decency to hold himself back, the one who cared for the welfare of someone other than himself, would be gone, and the world would once more be at rights.

* * *

Briseis stood, her hands folded demurely over the rail in front of her, as she watched the approaching coastline of her new home. She was scared. No, she was terrified. It was the same fear that had gripped her stomach when she had come to Troy as a child, with Hector, good, kind Hector, not much more than a child then, by her side. It was the fear of new places, of new people, of the unknown. But now it was a thousand times worse. She was no longer a child, with childish fears. Now she was a woman: a woman without honour, a woman without a family, a woman without a husband, or even a lover.

If she did not look to either side she could imagine that she was coming into Phthia with Achilles and the Myrmidons. Maybe not as his wife; but she could live with that as long as he was there. She could endure any amount of shame, as long as he was by her side. He had been her strength. Strength to defy her family, to walk tall, even without honour, strength to love him. And when he was gone, she had found strength in his child. It wasn't Achilles come back to life; she knew that. But somehow she had found the will to live and the courage to carry on with her life when all she wanted to do was curl up and die, and it had come from the knowledge that she had a job to do: she had to carry Achilles' child, to raise him and to love him.

And now, what reason did she have to live? She was little more than a Trojan slave. Perhaps the people lining the harbour walls no doubt thought her to be Neoptolemus' new whore. She was worse than nothing. For one long, terrifying moment, Briseis saw her whole life opening up in front of her: she saw herself hated by Achilles' mother for being the cause of death of her son, she saw herself scorned by the people of Phthia and despised by the slaves in the palace.

But the moment passed, and Briseis' straightened up, pushing her shoulders back and raising her eyes. She would no be cowed by people who had no idea of what she had been through. She, and she alone had the right to judge herself. No one could see her thoughts: the doubts and the shame that had filled her when she had lain in Achilles' arms for the first time, later to be replaced by a tragic love for him. She would not let herself be looked on with contempt and pity. She had loved Achilles, and she made no excuses for that. She loved him still, and would probably always do so. It didn't, at that moment, matter to her whether history put her down as a whore, as a priestess who abandoned her God, or as a faithful lover. She had loved him, Gods but how she had loved him! Nothing apart from that mattered.

* * *

Thetis stood at the dock, watching the ship bearing her grandson and her son's lover to her. Her last, precious links to her beloved Achilles stood on that ship, and Thetis would treasure them, for, in nothing else, Achilles had loved them.

His death had torn her apart. She did not try to deny the fact, or hide from it. There were people who saw her as cruel and heartless, because she had sent her only son off to death on the Trojan shores. All this she knew, but still she grieved. There was no other choice: he had had to go. Did they not know that she blamed herself, every minute of every day, for his death? No. They never saw the silver tears that fell in the bitter hours of the night, when isolation loomed over her, worse than any legendary monster.

But now, like a glimmer of light in the darkness; like a faint breeze of hope in the midst of despair, came two who needed help even more than she did. Neoptolemus needed to learn to love: she had known that for a long time. And her son's mysterious lover? Well, from all accounts, Thetis thought that the woman who had stolen Achilles' heart needed to learn that love was not all that there was.

The ship docked, and Thetis' eyes immediately sought out her grandson. He was watching the sailors pull the gangplank up, his face, as usual, devoid of emotion, but Thetis could see a great weariness there, that always tore at her heart.

Neoptolemus strode down the gangplank and onto Phthian soil: land that now belonged to him, with his customary show of arrogance and pride, but Thetis saw his face soften slightly as he approached her.

"Grandmother," he greeted her, raising one hand to her lips to kiss it tenderly.

Thetis smiled back at him, her heart already warmed by his presence.

"May I introduce Lady Briseis of Troy?" he asked, letting her hand drop to turn and beckon the girl behind him up.

Thetis watched the child carefully as she approached. She saw the fear in her eyes, masked by an aloof pride that made the old woman smile inwardly. She may be terrified, but she had guts, and, Thetis supposed, laughing to herself, anyone who put up with her son would need them.

"My Lady," Briseis stepped forwards, bowing her head respectfully.

Thetis reached out one hand and lifted Briseis' face with a single finger. "Welcome home child," she said gently.

Shock, confusion, and then a deep and heartfelt gratitude crossed the young woman's face.

"Come," Thetis said, addressing both her and her grandson. "Let us go."

Neoptolemus nodded brusquely, and offered his hand to help Thetis and Briseis into the waiting carriage, before swinging himself easily up onto his horse a slave held for him, and the procession turned homeward.

* * *

Late that evening, Briseis stood on her balcony, overlooking the restless sea. Her hair was still damp from the long bath she had just taken, and she was wearing a deep blue robe, that felt soft and clean against her skin. During the voyage Briseis had not been able to wash properly, and as she only had the one dress she had never felt properly clean.

But now all traces of her old life had been washed away, and she stood, dressed in a robe of her new life. Briseis the child was long gone. In her place stood Briseis the woman.

She had eaten with Thetis and Neoptolemus that evening, but there had been little conversation: enough to make the meal comfortable, but it was obvious that none of them really wanted to speak, so most of the time had passed in silence, which suited Briseis perfectly.

She was becoming more and more pensive; she thought wryly, a trait she had always scorned in others. The first eighteen years of her life she had concentrated on the future, believing that although the past was important, dwelling on it would never bring anything other than regret.

And yet she had spent the time since she had left the warmth of Achilles' bed doing nothing but remembering it. Remembering his touch on her skin, his kisses, the husky note of his voice, and hating herself more every moment she was unable to forget him.

She was startled out of her reverie by a soft tap on the door in the room behind her. A slave girl, a couple of years younger than herself, stood in the doorway shyly, although the paranoid part of Briseis' mind was telling her that she was staring at 'Neoptolemus' and Achilles' whore' with undisguised interest.

"What is it?" Briseis asked wearily, knowing that she was being unreasonable about the attention people were paying to her, and trying not to take it out on the girl who stood before her.

"My Lady Thetis wants to know if you be willing to speak with her," the girl said, her eyes downcast. Briseis imagined that someone had instructed the slaves to treat her with respect, and not as one of their own.

"Of course," Briseis replied, inwardly groaning. All she wanted was to be left alone, although she could hardly say that to her host.

The slave girl curtsied and left the room. Briseis stood still for a moment, wondering whether she was to seek out Thetis, but her momentary confusion was soon stilled, as Thetis stepped into the room, smiling at Briseis.

"The harbour looks magnificent, doesn't it?" she commented, nodding towards the view from Briseis balcony through the curtained doors.

Briseis turned around, slightly surprised. "I hadn't really noticed," she said honestly. But she did see the splendour of the view now that it had been pointed out to her. It was early evening, and the sun was just sinking in all it's fiery brilliance, turning the calm water to a riot of colours, and the sky to a gently pink. "I suppose it is, isn't it?" she agreed, turning back to see Thetis regarding her intently.

"I hope," the older woman was saying. "That we can be friends. My son loved you, my grandson loves you, and even without knowing that I can trust their judgement, I can see that you are a very strong woman."

"Strong?" Briseis said faintly. "I'm not strong."

"Not strong?" Thetis asked with an amused expression on her face. "You have to be strong to love my son, to leave your home, to come to an unknown land with unknown people. You are stronger than you realise."

"If I was strong I wouldn't have given in to Achilles," Briseis said, angry at herself, and angry at Thetis for saying things that cut so close to her heart.

"My son forced you?" Thetis asked quietly.

"No!" Briseis answered immediately. "No, of course not. He would never. But I still should have resisted him. I was a priestess!"

"Child, if the Gods had decided that Achilles would steal your heart, no power on earth would help you to resist that. Do not turn your back on the Gods because you fear that they have turned their backs on you."

Briseis looked up sharply, unshed tears glistening bright in her eyes. "Of course the Gods have abandoned me!" she said, more brusquely than she had intended. "I betrayed them."

"Even the Gods can forgive. Perhaps even more than you mortals can."

It was then that Briseis remembered the rumours that Thetis was a nymph, and she bowed her head again, although a new hope stirred in her heart. It had been harder to turn her back on the Gods than anyone had given her credit for, and, though she tried, she could not dim the spark of hope that they were still perhaps with her.

"Now, as I have taken in, I believe that I have the right to ask you a question," Thetis said in a businesslike voice.

Briseis looked up warily, but nodded her head.

"What is there between you and my grandson?"

"Neoptolemus?" Briseis asked, genuinely surprised. "Nothing."

Thetis, watching her carefully, saw no lie in her eyes, and nodded her head, but Briseis' mind was suddenly buzzing. Could it be that grief had blinded her? Now that it had been pointed out to her, it seemed so obvious. The way he looked at her, his tone of voice when he spoke with her, the way she had seemed to be the only one on the planet whom he had cared for.

"And there never will be anything there. I stay true to Achilles, and Achilles alone," she added, fiercely.

"Do not say that," Thetis said gently. "It is not a crime to find comfort in another man's arms when your own lover is long dead."

Briseis shook her head. "Have you ever noticed," she asked softly. "That when you lose something you loved, it is sometimes harder to replace them, because no matter how close the replica may be to the original, it can never be the one you truly loved?"

Thetis nodded slowly and sighed. "It is your own decision, your own life," she said. "But I beg of you, talk to my grandson. He needs to learn to love, but it will hurt him even more if you never speak of it."

Briseis nodded. "I'll speak to him first thing tomorrow morning," she promised.

* * *

When Briseis went down to eat breakfast with Thetis the next morning she was told that Neoptolemus had left at dawn with his crew, and no one knew when he was likely to return. 


	14. The Beginning

**A/N – well, I've finally finished it!! It's been long enough, I know, and I humbly beg your forgiveness for that. But now it's done, and if you even remember what the story was about, please read it and tell me what you think! And the last paragraph was stolen from 'Shakespeare in Love', which, incidentally, is a wonderful film, and I advise you to all go out and see it. All my love, my dears, and I hope this doesn't disappoint!

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**Chapter 14 – The Beginning**

_And God shall wipe away all the tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying; neither shall there be any more pain; for the former things are passed away_

_Revelations 21:4_

The years passed, and one blustery spring morning found Briseis standing quietly on the docks, watching a ship draw in. To a casual observer she looked the very image of a princess - serene, placid, breathtakingly beautiful - but the few who knew her would see the tightness in her jaw, the stiffness in her shoulders that betrayed a multitude of emotions racing through her slight frame.

The ship docked, and a tall, handsome man swung down onto the quay. He had dark blond hair, and a scar on his cheek gave him a cruel, mocking look. Belted around his waist was a sword, and Briseis could see two more knives protruding from the backs of his boots.

"Lady Briseis," he said as he approached her, lifting her hand and inclining his head slightly.

"My Lord Neoptolemus," Briseis responded, her voice never faltering as she curtseyed.

"How is she?" Neoptolemus asked in an anxious voice as he led Briseis to the waiting carriage.

"Very ill," Briseis replied quietly. "She's been hanging in to see you, I think."

The young warlord nodded tightly, and Briseis could see the flash of pain in his eyes.

"She's not in any pain," she continued. "But she has not got much time left."

Neoptolemus nodded again as he handed Briseis up into her carriage. "You do not mind if I ride ahead?" he asked.

Briseis shook her head. "I'd hurry," she advised. "She's been asking for you. I think she knew that you'd be coming today."

With a curt nod Neoptolemus turned and swung up onto the stallion a groom was holding for him.

"My Lady," he said by way of farewell, and moments later he was pushing his horse forwards into a fast canter up towards the palace.

Briseis followed more sedately in her carriage, struggling to keep her emotions in check. It had been four years since he had left her in this strange land, and today was the first time she had seen him since then. And yet despite the years that had passed, his mere presence was enough to send a fresh wave of grief through her. If anything, Briseis mused, the years had made the resemblance to his father even stronger.

Briseis gave herself a shake. Achilles was dead and gone. His mother, Thetis, who had cared for Briseis like her own daughter since her son's death, would soon be with Achilles, leaving Briseis alone in the world. No, not alone. Worse. Leaving her at the mercy of the brutal warlord who had just landed in Phthia. Now was not the time to be grieving for a long-dead past. Now was the time to be fearing for her future.

* * *

When Neoptolemus emerged from his grandmother's room it was early evening, and the palace was lit up in a spectacular array of reds and golds by the setting sun. He joined Briseis in the small room that she and Thetis regularly passed their evenings, talking and reading.

"How is she?" Briseis asked as the young warlord entered.

Neoptolemus sat heavily down onto one of the seats, and in the few hours since he had arrived it looked like he had aged several years.

"She's sleeping now," he told her. "I don't think she'll wake again."

Briseis nodded, looking down at her lap. "Did you speak with her?" she asked after a moment.

He nodded.

There was silence again.

Suddenly Neoptolemus jerked his head up to look at Briseis. "Thank you," he said stiffly. "For everything you've done for her in the past weeks. She said…" his voice broke off as he choked up, and Briseis suddenly felt a rush of compassion for the young man sitting opposite her. He may be one of the most feared men in the Agean, but he was still little more than a boy, overtaken by the grief of losing his last remaining family member.

Briseis stood up impulsively and moved to sit down next to him. She slipped one arm around his shoulders, and felt him stiffen with surprise at the sudden contact, but a moment later he relaxed and leant against her. Briseis pulled him against her, one hand moving to run through his hair. She felt him exhale heavily as he leaned against her chest, welcoming the comfort, and he closed his eyes as she rested her chin on the top of his head.

"It's going to be alright," Briseis murmured to him, though she wasn't entirely sure to which one of them the words of comfort were meant. "It's going to be alright."

They sat like that – two children, forced to grow up too fast – curled up together on the couch as the sun set, and the glorious golden light dimmed. It was almost completely dark by the time Briseis realised that Neoptolemus was asleep, and she carefully extracted herself from him before standing up. She took a couple of blankets from a cupboard, and covered him, careful not to wake him. She smiled briefly as she watched him sleeping, and then moved to her original seat, and curled up in it; asleep in minutes.

* * *

When Briseis woke the next morning, she was back in her bed. She stretched sleepily, yawning and wondering who had brought her up here. She rubbed her eyes and swung herself up onto her feet just as there was a knock at the door, and a timid-looking slave peered in.

"Lord Neoptolemus wishes to see you my Lady," she said, bobbing a curtsey.

Briseis nodded. "Tell my Lord I'll be with him in a minute," she told the girl, and turned to brush her hair and freshen herself up.

Neoptolemus, son of Achilles, Lord of Phthia and dread warlord of the Agean, lounged in a red-cushioned couch at the far end on a large plain room. My Lord wore a simple blue linen robe, severe and unadorned. Though Briseis knew that he was still a young man, his eyes betrayed a kind of dead weariness, devoid of any joy or even any interest in life. Curled in his lap lay a common tabby cat, her eyes closed, and her forepaws alternately kneading his thigh.

"My Lady Briseis," said the messenger, introducing her as she stepped into the room.

The young warlord's eyes flickered up to look at her, and he waved carelessly to a chair near his, beckoning her to sit. Briseis moved forwards nervously, and sat down.

"As you see, my cat's been unfaithful to me again," Neoptolemus said with mock distress, indicating the swollen belly of his cat.

Briseis smile lightly, and had she been looking, she would have been able to see my lord's eyes soften slightly as he watched her, and some of the lifelessness fall from his eyes.

"My grandmother died last night," he said after a moment's silence.

Briseis said nothing, but looked down at her hands, tightly clasped together, and nodded slightly.

"Which leaves us with the problem of your future," he continued, though his voice was somewhat thicker than before. "It was my father's wish that you should live with his mother until her death, and then go to the care of King Odysseus. However, if you would prefer to stay here, then of course I would not turn you away."

Briseis took a deep breath, sniffed, and raised her eyes. Now was not the time to get emotional. She had anticipated the death of Thetis for months. She could grieve later.

"Would Lord Odysseus still be willing to take me in?" she asked, fighting to keep her voice steady and business-like.

Neoptolemus nodded. "I was with him when I got the news about my mother, and I spoke to him about it then. He said that he was perfectly happy to take you in, if you should desire it."

Briseis nodded. "I would be grateful if you could give me time to think about it my Lord," she asked, raising her beseeching eyes to his.

Neoptolemus shook his head. "Talk to me," he commanded.

"My Lord?"

"Talk to me, explain why you want to go and why you want to stay."

Slightly taken aback by the request, Briseis frowned slightly, and then spoke. "Well, you see, ever since they took me from the temple, I haven't had a home," she began haltingly, but gathered confidence as she spoke. "Not a proper one, at least. This is the closest place I've had to that, and I don't want to start out again."

"But," Neoptolemus prompted her when she fell silent.

"But," Briseis continued. "This place…there's too many memories of _him_. It still hurts."

"You're still in love with him?" Neoptolemus asked, faintly surprised.

Briseis shook her head. "No. Not in love with him. I think…I think I still love him though. Enough for it to still hurt, at least. But not in love with him. Everything fades with time," she said somewhat sadly. "Even love."

Silence fell. Neoptolemus finally broke it. "What do you want Briseis?" he asked roughly.

Briseis looked up. "I want…oh Gods, all I want is my life back! I want to start again. To be able to forget the hell I lived through; to move on, to find a man who can love me, and to be happy with him. I want them to forget who I am, who I was. I want them to stop judging me long enough to see that what they thought they could see in me died all those years ago on a windswept beach at Troy. I want a new life."

Neoptolemus sighed, and then nodded. "I'll send word to Odysseus. He'll be here within a month," he promised, standing and walking out of the room, leaving Briseis curled over, her fists clenched tightly as she fought to keep the tears at bay.

* * *

The weeks passed with dreadful sluggishness for Briseis, but eventually she was once more down at the harbour, looking up at the ship that was to transport her to a new home.

She turned back to Neoptolemus, who was standing a little way behind her. They had hardly spoken in the time elapsed since it had been decided that Briseis should leave, and, truth be told, they had been avoiding each other, although for different reasons.

"I…" Briseis began hesitantly, raising her eyes to his somewhat forbidding face. "I wish to thank you, my Lord, for the kindnesses that both your mother and yourself have shown me."

He nodded, and Briseis waited a moment before realising that he wasn't going to reply, and began to turn. But his hand whipped out and caught her by the wrist sharply, pulling her into him.

"Take care of yourself," he said huskily, clasping her hands tightly. He forced a smile, and released her. "Give my regards to King Odysseus."

Briseis frowned, then reached out, and touched his cheek. "Be happy," she said in a soft voice, and then she was gone – up the gangplank and onto the ship, before she was swallowed up by the mass of sailors as they prepared to cast off.

The young warlord swallowed thickly, nodded, and then turned briskly away and swung himself up onto his horse, pushing the beast into a trot and heading back towards the palace. She was not going to look back, so neither would he.

* * *

That night, as the boat tossed and turned in the violent throes of a summer storm, Briseis dreamed. She dreamed of her parents, of her childhood in Troy, of the peace she found at the temple. And then she dreamed of Achilles and the peace turned to inner turmoil as she was faced with emotions she had not felt in years. And then, through all the pain and the fear, she saw his face. he was smiling at her, and all the doubts washed away_ and there was no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying; nor was there any more pain, for all the former things had passed away_, and when she woke, there were fresh tears on her cheeks, but she was smiling.

My story starts at sea... a perilous voyage to a distant land... a shipwreck... the wild waters roar and heave... the brave vessel is dashed all to pieces, and all the helpless souls within her drowned... all save one... a lady... whose soul is greater than the ocean... and her spirit stronger than the sea's embrace... not for her a watery end, but a new life beginning on a stranger shore.

The Beginning.


End file.
